


Sing me a song of the Queen who is gone

by raiyana



Series: The Dwelf series [6]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst and Feels, Baby Elves, Backstory, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family Feels, Gen, Goodbyes, Grief/Mourning, Love and Marriage, Mental Instability, Post-partum psychosis, Sailing To Valinor, Side Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2018-09-02 05:47:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 26,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8653180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: He thought it was over, the darkest days of grief had passed, giving way to slivers of sunlight and new hope growing.For a while, he was right.And then he wasn't, then he was sucked right back into those grim days, trying to keep his heart from breaking but knowing it would inevitably shatter in his breast. There was only one choice left, and it was no choice at all; it was despair and a guilt he would carry until the end of days, guilt under which he would become a version of himself he hardly recognised...Or, the story of the Queen of Greenwood and the King who banished her for love and a desperate hope... and the shattered family she left behind.





	1. The Queen of Greenwood

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place in TA 73  
> Thanks to the B2MEM which inspired me to _finish_ this ^^  
>  This story may make more sense if you read the Dagorlad Prologue, ["Calm before the Storm"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14529171/) and the TA 2 fic, [ "A Dream of Spring"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14528967), first.

The ceramic bowl crashed against the wall, splattering its content across the stone, porridge running down the wall in uneven lumpy stripes.

“Get away from me!” the red-haired elleth screamed, retreating into a corner and hiding her face in her knees, her shoulders shaking in sobs.

“Nínimeth,” her husband tried, aiming for gentle but knowing it would make no difference to his wife however he spoke to her, if she even heard him at all. Wrapping his arms around her, he tried to pull her close, tried to offer her comfort he knew she would not accept, his mind flashing back to the darkest day of his life and wondering if her eyes would turn black with hatred once more if he dared look. “Please, meleth, you must eat.”

“I want my son!” she screamed, pushing him away. Thranduil bit his lip, staring helplessly at the mithril-haired elleth across the room.

“He is right here, gwathel-nîn[1],” Rhonith murmured, rocking the fussy elfling in her arms. She did not move closer, however, hushing Legolas’ cries with gentle humming, stroking the pale hair that so resembled Thranduil’s own locks.

“That is not my son.” The Queen of Green wood fought her way free of her husband’s arms, pointing a shaking finger at the elfling she had brought into this world only a few months before.

“It is, meleth,” Thranduil murmured, “this is our leafling; you named him Legolas.”

“No! My son is Hwinion, I WANT MY SON!” she bellowed, collapsing in tears again, covering her ears when her outburst made the little boy cry in fear. “I want my leaf! Not that one!”

Rhonith tried to hush the screaming babe, but eventually Thranduil waved her out of the room, kneeling by his distraught wife. It hurt him to see her so… not herself, not his fierce and fiery Nínimeth, see her reduced to this whimpering bundle of fear and mindless rage.

“I cannot give you our firstborn, my Queen,” he said, daring to reach out to stroke her hand. Now that the babe was gone, she leaned into his touch, her big green eyes watery and grief-stricken when she looked up at him.

“Where is he, Hwin?” she whispered, gripping his wrist. Thranduil swallowed. He had believed – once – that he would never hear her voice call him by that name again, but now it struck him with a thousand sharp knives, to hear it coated in despair he had believed she had conquered; grief they had survived at long last together. “Where is our son?”

“Thalion is dead, Nínimeth,” he said, as kindly as he could. Grief still pulled on his soul whenever he remembered the bloodied body lying so very still in his Naneth’s arms, too still for life – especially a life that had been spent in nearly constant motion, even when their son was just an elfling. “He was lost in the War.” Her wailing did not surprise him; it was not the first time they had this discussion. At least, this time she had not asked him if he would give ‘that strange elfling’ back in return for their son. Thranduil did not understand; Nínimeth had been so happy about having a new leafling, even if it was not something they’d planned for – they had several grandchildren, after all! – but ever since the accident she had grown more and more despondent, retreating into herself. The birth had not – as he had silently hoped – relieved her fears that the little leaf would be harmed, had not convinced her that he would be well and grow up happy. Instead, she had developed a severely unstable mood; smiling and happy in one minute and bursting into tears in the next with an intensity that scared him. He could not reach her soul, not really, her brightness marred by shadow-like rends and scars that would not heal no matter how much love he poured into the bond between them. He did not know what to do, who to ask; part of him wished his Naneth had not returned to Aman, longing for her gentle calmness. This was a sickness for which he knew no cure and nor did Nestor, even if Nínimeth had been willing to talk to her former apprentice about what she was going through. Some days, she did nothing but sleep, others she would wander the hallways at night, snarling at those who attempted to speak to her. Of the gentle Queen and Healer there was precious little left, Thranduil feared, staring at the person who felt like a stranger in his wife’s body, felt like a wild creature; untameable and furious at times, deceptively docile at others.

“Get out.” Nínimeth said, her voice deadened. Thranduil stiffened. He had known she did not wish for his comfort, but she had never so bluntly stated that she did not desire his company.

“Nínimeth, please,” he whispered, “tell me how to help you.”

“Get out!” she bellowed, pushing him away. “Get out and don’t come back!”

He left; he did not wish to hear her tell him it was his fault their son died. Not again. Behind him, something else clattered against the door, a wounded scream following in his wake.

Thranduil was losing hope.

 

* * *

 

 

“We must do something!” Rhonith exclaimed, pacing with little Legolas in her arms, when Thranduil returned to the sitting rooms that connected his study with their bedroom before Nínimeth banished him from sharing her bed and forcing him to furnish a second bedroom for himself. Thranduil sighed.

“It is clear that things cannot continue,” he whispered, staring out of his window at the rapidly darkening night outside the Halls. “But I am at a loss, sellig, I do not know how to help her. She does not respond to me, pushes me away whenever I try to bring her comfort.”

“Do you think… Elrond might be able to help? They say he is a great healer.” Rhonith asked. Thranduil shook his head.

“If she will not speak to myself, or you, or Avornien, will not even accept Nestor entering her room, I do not think she would feel any more amenable to an almost stranger.” Furthermore, he wasn’t sure this was a disease that _had_ a true cure; had he not thought she had been healed from her grief after Dagorlad, only now to suffer through a resurgence of that same grief once more? Perhaps this, too, would run its course. He did not say it out loud, however, failing to sound convincing even in his own mind. “I do not know what we _can_ do, Rhonith,” he whispered, hopeless. “She… she is not Nínimeth, and I am afraid she will… _hurt_ … Legolas,” Rhonith snarled, tightening her protective hold, “or herself.” He had not told her of the times she spoke of offering up one leaf for the gods to return their first one, filling his soul with revulsion; the Valar would not listen to such a prayer, and if she were in her right mind, Nínimeth would have been horrified at the very idea.

“She won’t harm him,” Rhonith swore, stroking the pale hair with a gentleness that belied the strength of her oath. Thranduil smiled knowingly, though she did not see the brief flash of humour in his blue eyes. He had not believed her when Nínimeth told him what she suspected about their adopted daughter’s response to having the new-born leaf placed in her arms, but he was beginning to see just how tightly his son had already wound himself into her heart; a bond that would only grow stronger as the boy aged.

“She would not want to, sellig,” he murmured, stroking her ear to calm her down, “yet I cannot silence the voice that sounds like a warning in my heart not to leave our son alone with her… but he needs her, there are no others who could feed him.” Even if the end of the War meant peace, it had as yet only resulted in a few pregnancies being announced – after the Queen had already given birth.

“He won’t be,” Rhonith said, her voice steely, “I’ll sleep in her room, trade off watches with Avornien.”

Thranduil just nodded, taking the leaf from her arms and attempting to smile at his son, who looked up at him with his own clear blue eyes. ‘ _Eyes like water’_ , Naneth had once told him, ‘ _my son who is so like the sea’. Will you be like the sea, ionneg,_ he asked silently, _calm and tempestuous at once, ever-changing?_ He did not even notice when Rhonith left the room on silent feet, her soft leather boots making no sound on the stone.

 

* * *

 

 

“Gwathel-nîn is not getting better, Atheg.” The young elleth’s voice was quiet and sad. “She does not recognise the elfling as Legolas. As her son. She refuses to feed him, and she has little milk to do so either way. Maeassel has acquired a milk goat, she claims it should be possible to feed him with goat’s milk instead.” Thranduil looked down at the little leaf; he did look smaller than his brothers had when they were his age, he thought.

“Is she… otherwise well?” he asked, stroking the elfling’s cheek. Thranduil had not been allowed to visit for more than a month, but the reports he received from the servants who cleaned her room on the rare occasions the Queen allowed visitors other than her handmaiden, Avornien, were disturbing. Rhonith shook her head, joining him on the sofa and running her fingers across the ears of both father and son.

“No,” she sighed, leaning against him. Thranduil wrapped his arm around her shoulders, though he did not know whether he was receiving or offering comfort with the touch. “Today she did not seem to recognise my face,” she whispered, her sapphire eyes shiny with tears. “The one who has called me sister since the hour of my birth…and she did not know who I was.” Thranduil’s face crumbled as he looked at the younger elleth, pleading with his eyes for her to give him better news, but his despair was echoed in her drawn features. In his arms Legolas stirred, the leafling no more than 6 months old. Little Legolas was a quiet child, studying the world through large blue eyes.

“I will not lose her, Rhonith. I cannot.” The admission pained him, because it inevitable begged the question he dared not voice: _Is Nínimeth already lost?_ He hugged his son tighter, tracing one finger along the cheek of his last leafling.

“I don’t know what we could do for her that we have not already tried, Atheg,” Rhonith replied, tears of sheer exhaustion sliding slowly down her face. Legolas gave her a gummy smile, oblivious to the turmoil in her mind. Almost despite herself, Rhonith returned the smile.

“She must take the ships,” Thranduil whispered, stiffening as the words passed his lips. Legolas grumbled in his arms, picking up on the distress the thought caused him. “Perhaps she will find peace in Valinor, find healing I cannot give her.” It was a terrible choice to make, but in his heart he had known the truth to his question for some time: _Nínimeth would not recover, not this time, her mind was too far gone._ Rocking the leafling gently, Thranduil tried to soothe, to protect his son from the grief that permeated the air. Little Legolas gave his adar a gummy smile, which did not make him feel better.

“Will you take her West?” Rhonith whispered, hardly daring to voice the words. This was the last resort; it was Valinor or fading entirely, a fate she did not wish upon either of them. If he sent her west, at least there was a chance of swifter reunion; if Nínimeth faded into death, she would be locked in the Halls of Mandos awaiting her Doom, her judgement. There was no guarantee that she would choose to be reborn as all that she was, and – even if she did – no way to return from across the Sea. Thranduil shook his head.

“No. I cannot.” The tall elf stood to face the window, through which the two could see the green leaves of spring. Hugging the elfling to his breast, he murmured quietly, despair in every syllable, “I cannot bear to stand on the piers of the Grey Havens and watch her leave without me.” Thranduil sighed. “I cannot recall her fëa, Rhonith. Not this time.” He had barely been enough, before, when she was battling only the grief of their son, but this… this was madness and rage mingled with grief so powerful he could not touch it, could not shelter her from the storm, light her path out of the darkness. “Sellig, she is almost lost and I… I do not know what else to do.”

“Will you not go with her?” Rhonith asked, though she hoped the answer was no; if they both left, she would have no kin among her father’s people but their twin sons, one of whom disliked her greatly.

“My sons are not ready to rule, Rhonith, you know that.” Thranduil sighed, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and stroking her ear gently. “Ninimeth must go West, to Valinor, if she is to live, and I must stay here until one of my sons can take the crown.” In his arms, Legolas cooed. “I do not wish for him to grow up without his Naneth,” Thranduil whispered, “but I do not wish to take this world from him before he is ready, either. Nínimeth said he would range far, and I feel our last son will have a destiny beyond this forest.”

“I will take her,” Rhonith sighed, knowing she would feel no peace on the journey, knowing that this was not what Nínimeth would have chosen if she still could – but Nínimeth no longer inhabited her body, replaced by an unrecognisable creature of rage. They both stiffened in surprise, but she did not take back her offer.

“Sellig…” Thranduil trailed off, staring at her. Rhonith gave him a pale smile.

“Perhaps, Avornien will join us,” she murmured, which gave him some hope that she did not intend to follow her sister to the Undying Lands. “I will take Nínimeth to the Grey Havens and put her on one of the swan-prowed ships with the white sails.”

Thranduil said nothing, simply stared at the small face of his son; the elfling he had never thought he would have, and in some ways the catalyst of his wife’s suffering. He wondered if his love for this leaf would be enough to counter the absence of his Naneth.

 

 

 

[1] My sworn sister


	2. The Queen of Greenwood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting from Greenwood to the Grey Havens

A week later, the small party was ready to leave; the Queen was mounted on one of the most docile elks in the stables, rather than her usual mount, and a contingent of guards were riding along for protection. Avornien had chosen to accompany her friend, though Nínimeth had not reacted to that news any more than she had understood where they were heading. Behind him, their dark-haired twins stood in silence. Thonnon disagreed with his decision, Thranduil knew, his hot-head son often at odds with him; Thandir had not offered an opinion either way, but that didn’t surprise his adar. As confrontational and temperamental as Thonnon was, Thandir was a deeper well, his emotions often hidden beneath a layer of stoicism. Sometimes, he thought his third elfling was too easily influenced by his louder brother, but secretly he preferred Thandir’s gentleness over Thonnon’s brash nature.

“ _No gelin idh raid dhîn, a no adel dhen i chwest **[1]**_ ,” Thranduil called, standing by the Forest Gate. Legolas made a gurgling noise in his arms; the leafling was the only one who was happy today, Thranduil thought. Nínimeth had ignored him entirely, had ignored everything, in fact, staring at nothing and reacting to no one. Thranduil tightened the grip on his sceptre. Rhonith was mounted on a spirited elk, one of old Dairon’s gets, Thranduil thought, distracting himself from the vacant look in his beloved’s eyes.

“Atheg,” Rhonith hesitated, running her fingers over his ear and down his jaw, trailing a gentle touch along Legolas’ cheek. The leaf smiled at her. “I do not know when I can bear to return here without her – without you,” she whispered, looking back at the statue-like elleth, whose crimson hair shone in the bright morning sun. Thranduil could hardly bear to look at her himself; he had tried to say farewell earlier, but he wasn’t truly convinced she had even registered his presence. She had allowed the boys into her room, which was even more painful when held against her utter refusal to acknowledge his existence.

“My sons will care for their brother when I cannot, sellig[2].” Thranduil soothed, stroking her ear in return. She smiled, but it wasn’t a happy one, he knew. “I am glad you will be with her until the ship sails,” he murmured, leaning in to press a kiss to her forehead. “I know Nínimeth will appreciate your presence, even if she does not currently seem aware of anything. I will miss you.” In his arms, Legolas was watching peacefully. The twins kept quiet, though he could feel Thonnon’s anger simmering behind him.

“I will miss you too,” she replied softly, “all of you.”

“Farewell, Rhonith,” Thandir called; the first words he had spoken all day. Rhonith smiled at him. With a final wave at the gathered crowd of well-wishers – sombre and already mourning the absence of their beloved Queen – she called for the small group to move. She did not look back at the elf who had become her father in all but blood more than a millennium before.

 

Thranduil stood by the Forest Gate, staring after them until long after they had passed into obscurity among the trees. It was fitting, he thought, that he would be staring south as his wife left him, his mind turning towards the dark lands to the far south where their oldest son had perished.

When he finally moved from his spot, the King of Greenwood simply returned to his rooms, closing and locking the door that led to the Queen’s private chambers, and sank into a chair, his arms cradling his sleeping son as he wept silently.

 

* * *

 

 

“It’s that Noldorin witchling’s doing!” Thonnon seethed, pacing through the quarters he had been offered. Leaning against the wall, his twin, Thandir, flinched.

“I wish you wouldn’t call her that, brother,” he said, twisting a lock of his hair between his fingers, “Rhonith loves Naneth and Adar-”

“Don’t call her that!” Thonnon snarled. “She is _not_ our sister!”

“But she is naneth’s,” Thandir objected, though he flinched again when Thonnon whirled on him.

“Naneth is gone, Thandir, and I bet it was her fault!” Thonnon grimaced. “Adar has always been weak when it came to her; Noldorin witch!”

“She’s always been nice to us,” Thandir tried, but Thonnon ignored him, “Thalion loved her, too.”

“Pffft!” Thonnon scoffed. “Thalion was as great a fool as Adar, and he’s _dead,_ along with grandfather and so many others. Yet _she_ survived.” Pacing to the other end of their room, he continued his angry gesturing. “Now Naneth is going to Valinor; how many members of our family will have to be lost before you see reason? _She’s_ the one who told Adar to send off our _mother_ , I’m sure of it.”

“We were not here, Thonnon, we did not see what happened.” Thandir tried to soothe, though he knew it would do little good. It had been some years since either of the twin Princes had seen their parents. Thonnon lived in the small village by the forest road, with his wife and two daughters, while Thandir had been up north, where a small group of Silvans – intermingled Nandorin and Sindarin Elves – had made their home. That was where he had met Arassiel, and fallen in love. He had worried, once, that his parents would not approve of his wife – certainly Thonnon would have preferred his twin marry a Sindar, like he had – but they had seen the quiet happiness emanating from their third son, and welcomed her easily.

“We met with Naneth, though, brother, did you see anything wrong with her?” Thonnon reasoned.

“She was a little quiet,” Thandir admitted. “And more sad than I expected from a new mother.” He and Arassiel had discussed elflings lately; and the thought still filled him with joyous hope for the future, even if it was slightly marred by the sorrow of knowing that his son or daughter would not meet their grandmother until they were reunited in Aman.

“Because the witchling wouldn’t let her hold the leaf!” Thonnon exploded, startling Thandir out of his thoughts. “That half-dwarf has already begun working her magic on the little one; you saw how he cried until she took him away.” Thandir shook his head silently. He had seen that, yes, but he had also seen how relieved their Naneth had looked when Rhonith took the leafling away. There was a darkness in their Naneth that he had not seen before; a darkness that had not been present even when she was lost in her grief for their older brother.

“They say she has gone mad,” he offered instead, but Thonnon waved off the words like buzzing flies.

“Rumours and gossip, brother,” he retorted. “Did she seem mad to you?” Thandir sighed.

“No…” _but she did not seem altogether sane, either._ Thandir left the thought unsaid. Thonnon smiled triumphantly.

“I told you it was all a trick.”

* * *

 

 

The journey proved uneventful, though no less heart breaking for that, Rhonith thought. Avornien rode double with Nínimeth, controlling their mount, because the Queen simply stared into the air, staring at a world only she could see and rebuffing all who came near her. Even Avornien struggled to maintain her famously stoic façade, and more than once Rhonith found herself wishing that she had left this task to someone else, simultaneously aware that she would have hated herself if she had stayed in Greenwood.

Imladris – the newly established home of Lord Elrond, and a fair number of her own ada’s subjects – was as welcoming and homely as any place she had ever been; filled with spirit of Eregion long-gone. The Elves there – many of whom knew her well – were welcoming, but quietly horrified to see the condition of the once-proud Queen of the Forest.

“I do not believe I can help her, Lady Pethril,” Lord Elrond admitted quietly, which was only what Rhonith – they called her Pethril, here, if they did not use her father-name – had expected.

“I am grieved, mellon,” Lady Celebrían added, “but I believe you are doing the right thing.” The only daughter of Galadriel had long been a friend, but her words were no true comfort. Rhonith nodded tightly. Celebrían’s gentle embrace did little to soothe her heartache, nor did the sudden arrival of Nurtalëon help much, aside from reassuring her that she was not going to be doing this alone.

 

Leaving Imladris with a heavy heart, the small group of woodland Elves felt weary. The land here was too open for their tastes, missing their native forests and tempers were strained.

By the time they reached the Grey Havens, having crossed through Arnor, Rhonith was pleased to be met by the Shipwright, who’d long been a friend to her adar, giving them a chance to rest in one of the houses that overlooked the Gulf of Lune – not all equally well-constructed, her dwarven eyes said, immediately choosing the best one for Nínimeth. The warriors had to stay in a different building, their absence soothing her frazzled nerves, though Nurtalëon remained.

 

[1] May your paths be green and the breeze behind you

[2] My daughter


	3. Woodland Woes

The stars were beautiful so far above him; it was a clear night, only wisps of clouds to obscure the brilliance of Elbereth’s work. In his arm, the elfling slept quietly, unaware of the tears that travelled down his ada’s face as he stared West, as though he could catch sight of the one who was probably already past the Misty Mountains. His hand clenched around the sceptre of his rule, white knuckles standing out against pale skin as he battled with himself; as always warring with the side of him that wanted to abandon those far below, those who were his to care for, his duty… all to follow the one he had promised his heart, the one who should have stood beside him, enjoying the cool night breeze and the glitter of stars. The promontory was his, his alone, now, though once it had been her favourite place in their home; new as the permanent dwelling was, this promontory had been here for untold scores of years and they had come here often, before elflings and wars and crowns got in the way, just to talk and be together, bathe in the starlight and stare across the vast forest. Rhonith’s kin had left it alone – he hadn’t thought to ask for it, but he appreciated the undisturbed feeling of this place even more now that he was alone to enjoy it; alone but for the sleeping elfling in his free arm, the little life he cherished as the last remnant of his wife, his Nínimeth, left behind when she began the long journey west. The red silk billowed when a playful breeze caught the hem, but Thranduil did not move. He was Thranduil now, only Thranduil. Almost all those who had known his other name; who had used the name his Naneth gave him were gone, passed beyond the sea or perished in war. Only Bronwe was left, and his old friend had seen the pain of it the first time he used it, trying to offer comfort as the Captain stood by his King, waving farewell to the keeper of his heart. Bronwe had not used the name since.

In his arms, the elfling murmured something, lost in a dream and kicking his small feet against Thranduil’s chest, breaking the spell of the night and his memories. Smiling down at his son, Thranduil hushed him gently, watching those blue eyes slide shut once more, returning his son to the world of dreams.

“I love you, pinig,” he whispered, the words carried off with the breeze that flicked his robe around his legs, disturbed the pale locks of his hair. “Your Naneth loves you, too,” he promised, holding the swaddled elfling close to his chest. “One day, I will tell you about her; tell you all the things she loved, and you will ask why I weep with the telling, I know, but you will not understand, even if I tell you. I am sorry,” he murmured, but the leafling did not awake at his soft voice. Thranduil sighed. “I wish you could remember her; at least a little. I am afraid, ionneg, so afraid that you will hate me for the choice I have made.”

 

When the first light of approaching dawn coloured the eastern sky, Thranduil sighed, turning on his heel. Walking back into his halls, he was not surprised to find Bronwe falling into step with him. They exchanged no words, but the Captain walked him all the way to his door, watched him put Legolas in the crib that had once been carved by a Dwarf who grumbled that it ought to have been stone, her dark-haired husband laughing at her from where he sat, making silver moulds for casting the glittering shapes that hung above Legolas’ head as they had hung above Rhonith once, and above Thandir and Thonnon. Thalion had not had a crib, of course, sleeping in between his parents until he was big enough to merit his own bed. Thranduil smiled, stroking the tiny point of his last son’s ear. Legolas wrinkled his nose, but he leaned into the touch even though he did not wake. The King of the Woodland Realm walked through the slowly waking hallways, nodding at those he passed; he knew that they knew his grief, but he also knew that his people accepted the devotion he showed them, the safety and sanctuary he offered after so much horror. He felt the love of hundreds every time he walked through his Realm, and while it did not heal the heartache, it told him he was doing the right thing by staying.

There was no one but him they would look to, no one who might convince such different tribes to co-existent under his banners, wear the maple leaf of his sigil and swear him allegiance with such devotion as Thranduil felt from his subjects.

Far away, he could hear the voices of washerwomen rise in working song, a peaceful thing; no one had sung washing blood from still-usable clothing during the war, nor had there been much joy to find during the seven year siege of the Black Gates, but they had peace now, even if he personally did not believe it would last; he avoided looking south, feeling the sun’s warmth fade from his thoughts whenever he did, felt the echo of the Shadow once more. He had seen the horrors of Mordor, and though it lay now under watchful guard by Men, Barad-dur’s dark stones scattered and its power broken, Thranduil did not think it truly vanquished. The Shadow would rise again… and his people would be far better prepared than they had been at the beginning of the war; he had already begun negotiations with the Dwarrow of Khazad-dûm, who claimed his mountains had some of the finest silver they had seen; perfectly willing to mine it and give him steel-and-mithril mail and armour in return. Durin had even promised to make the armour _look_ Elven, making it light but strong, which would hopefully convince his guards and soldiers to _wear_ it, even without his direct orders.

Picking up his goblet, he sipped the sweet but tart juice of _cordof_ that always brought a gentle smile to his face in the morning, nodding silently at the serving girl who brought him a platter of nibbles to replace his breakfast; Thranduil knew it was Maeassel’s hands at work, ensuring that he fed himself appropriately, even though he no longer felt like sitting down to eat his meals at the table he had shared with Nínimeth. The girl – he thought her name was Morineth, but it was better to be certain before he called out the wrong name to thank her – bowed gracefully, slipping away in silence. Making a note to confirm her name with his steward, Thranduil waved at the door guards, signalling the day of his court to begin.

He would be the King, and he would protect his peoples, shelter them from harm. His was not the power of one of the Rings – and after the war that had so recently been fought, he would not have trusted such magicks to guard his Realm – the power of the Elvenking of the great Forest had always been that which was found in the land, in trees and deep roots, and the sound of birds singing and the joy of Elves dancing. Nínimeth had been the one to teach him that, in truth, she had been the main reason Oropher’s fledgling kingdom grew beyond Amon Lanc at all, bringing the Nandorin chieftains together under their rule in a slow and laborious process that had eventually seen them rulers of all the forest; from the Mountains in the north, to the marshes in the south.

Starlight Prince, the son of the Beech Tree King, they had called him at first, but he had chosen his new name in a ceremony older than he was; a remnant of the Nandorin culture that had survived – and still survived in this day; tying him to this land of trees that had borne his wife as though he too had been born beneath their boughs.

Thranduil. Ever the great river runs across.

 


	4. Leaving these shores

Standing on the stone pier of the Grey Havens and looking at the ship that would take her beloved Nínimeth away, Rhonith could not help but weep. A work-roughened hand on her shoulder slowed the fall of her tears, but did not still their coming.

“Queen Nínimeth will sail in the morning. Go to her. Even if she does not recognise you now, she will remember your presence when she reaches the shores of Aman.” Turning, the young elleth looked at the old man who had spoken. Cirdan, the Shipwright, and Master of the Grey Havens looked at her kindly. His words, although comforting, did not make her less heart-sore, but she nodded either way. He, who had seen so many goodbyes, knew that it would not be goodbye forever, but to those left behind, it would often feel like it. He squeezed her shoulder once more before he let go, hitting her hair bead with a soft ping off his ring. The peredhel smiled, wobbly though it was, and made her way to the house in which her party had been given rooms.

 

“Rhonith. What’s going on? Where are we?” Nínimeth’s voice was quiet, but her green eyes were unusually bright. The sight of her sister so briefly returned to the world of the living almost made Rhonith cry again, but she managed to keep her tears at bay. Avornien gasped beside her.

“We are in the Grey Havens, Nínimeth… You and Avornien are sailing West tomorrow.” Rhonith replied hoarsely. The Queen frowned.

“Where is my Little Leaf?” she asked, looking around the room, suddenly frantic. “Where is my husband? My sons?”

“Legolas is in Greenwood, with Thranduil, as are Thonnon and Thandir. We are sending you West, hoping you may find peace there from the darkness that haunts your spirit,” Rhonith whispered. The traitorous tears began pressing against her eyes once more, staring into the green eyes that were – for once – filled with something more than grief and fury; recognition shone there, and Rhonith wept to see it. The Queen’s lovely face crumbled as she realised just what the words meant. “Thonnon and Thandir will be in the Halls with Legolas when Atheg falls into the search. I-,” she opened her mouth to offer herself as a travelling companion, but Nínimeth’s raised hand stilled the words in her throat.

“ _Darthathog_? Sister, promise me you will stay… for my youngest? Please,” Nínimeth gripped Rhonith’s hand tightly, tears beginning to fall from her eyes. “Love them, as I have loved you.” Nínimeth commanded. The younger elleth nodded, wordlessly. “Be a daughter to my Thranduil and a friend to my sons.” Reaching out, she cupped Rhonith’s face, raising her head gently. “ _Tíro nin **[1]**. _ They will need you,” Nínimeth continued softly. Rhonith lost her struggle, silent tears coursing down her cheeks as she spoke the words that would bind her as firmly as a mithril chain.

“I will stay, gwathel-nîn, I promise. I will stay until they leave these shores. Legolas will have my friendship through all his days. _Gweston. Nínion ne mened gîn_.[2]” Nínimeth’s hand rose slowly, wiping the tears from her cheeks and stroking her ears gently. She was surprised when her little sister threw herself into her arms, but she returned the – mortals called it a hug, she knew – embrace firmly, stroking her fingers soothingly through mithril locks as her own tears soaked into the shimmery strands.

“ _Gûr nîn glassui, Rhonith-nin. No gelir. **[3]**” _ Nínimeth whispered softly.

 

The ship left the quay with the sunrise, carrying away an elleth who was once a queen, but whose mind was so clouded with shadows that she would not have another lucid moment until she arrived on the far shores. With her went a message, carried by her faithful handmaiden and long laboured over by her King, promising her two things: that their reunion would be swift and that their youngest son would be well-loved in her absence.

He would not keep either promise, though he tried dearly.

Slowly his heart turned colder with longing.

 

* * *

 

 

“You must be strong, ionneg,” Thranduil whispered, letting the leaf catch his fingers with a surprisingly strong grip for one so small. “I will leave you soon, though I hope to return before you know I am missing; I do not know when it will happen. Your brothers will look after you, and Bronwe will keep you safe, and if you grow old enough to understand, he will tell you stories of me as a youngster. Do not believe him; he likes to embellish his tales.” Legolas smiled, squeezing his finger and gnawing at the tip. The small robes one of the seamstresses had made looked amusingly like the ones Thranduil himself wore, making him feel like he was looking at a miniature mirror. “My last leaf,” Thranduil mumbled, tickling him until he laughed, the small pink mouth opening in a toothless smile. “I love you dearly. I know you will not remember this, but I hope you will know it is true either way.” Leaning back against the throne, Thranduil played with his small son. He knew they must be close to sailing, now, dared not leave for the promontory just in case; he had watched his own ada fall into the search, unexpectedly falling asleep atop his mount and narrowly escaping a broken neck. These days, Thranduil moved nowhere unaccompanied by Bronwe or another guard, and once he had arrived where he needed to go, he would take a seat. Falling on stone would probably not kill him, but it was bound to hurt and might even weaken the hold of his hröa when his fëa left it to look for Nínimeth’s, when their bond was snapped by the curtain that separated Valinor from Middle-Earth.

 

* * *

 

 

It was the hungry cries of the leafling that brought them running in the morning.

 

On the throne, clad in the finery he had worn the day before, Thranduil sat, his eyes closed and his breathing slow and steady. In his lap, Legolas was punching the air, his cries increasing in volume when they did not result in food.

“Hush now, pinig,” Maeassel murmured, setting down the plate of nibbles she usually prepared for his adar in the morning and picking up the little leaf. Turning around, she nodded once at Captain Bronwe, she had arrived soon after she did, summoned by a door warden. “I’ll feed him,” she promised. Bronwe nodded. Carefully, he picked up the vacant body of his oldest friend, striding down the winding steps with ease and setting off for the King’s bedroom.

Those he passed in the corridors bowed their heads to their King, offering the traditional blessings in such cases. Bronwe nodded at them, silently moving along.

As he lay Thranduil’s body on the bed, he, too, offered the saying, though it felt like empty words meant more for the comfort of those left behind.

“ _Harthon an drevaded thent_.[4]”

 

[1] Look at me

[2] I swear. I weep at your passing.

[3] Look at me. Thank you from my heart, my Rhonith. Be happy.

[4] I hope it will be a short journey


	5. To wander in Dreams and Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A scattering of memories from a long life together.

“Dance with me!” he laughed, caching her hand. Nínimeth laughed, pressing up on tip-toes for a kiss when his arm went around her waist.

The tune was different to the music her people played and Thranduil knew he would have to show the Silvans that it was not such a difficult thing to learn. Used to circle dances and long rows dancing around and jumping over bonfires, the partnered couple style of dance he had grown up with was only one of the foreign things his new people had never tried before.

Secretly, Thranduil loved the unfettered freedom of the Nandorin style of dancing, but he was happy to share something he had learned since he was an elfling with his beloved Nínimeth. Losing himself to the softness of her mouth for a moment or an eternity, Thranduil almost forgot that he was supposed to teach her to dance.

“Follow my lead,” he whispered, feeling those lips curve into a smile against his own. Her green eyes were sparkling with happiness; like him, Nínimeth was still not used to the sheer sensation of their bond, the feeling of being married to another soul still new. Thranduil hoped neither of them would ever forget this feeling.

“As you wish,” Nínimeth replied, chuckling as she allowed him to move her arms into the correct position.

“We take a step like this,” he whispered, enjoying the sound of her laughter as his hips pressed against hers. It was far more intimate than the way he’d been taught, and Thranduil could see his Naneth hiding a smile from where she was held in Oropher’s arms. Neither of them remarked on it though, knowing that it was nearly impossible for newlyweds to keep from touching each other. “We glide across the floor,” Thranduil said, keeping his voice low and holding his wife close.

The pace was even, no faster than walking, as he stepped confidently, guiding her steps with his hips. The excuse to hold her close against his body, enjoying the feel of her moving against him, was a large point in favour of this style, too. It was as much an embrace as it was a dance, and Thranduil enjoyed the innocent intimacy more than he had ever believed he could, when Nenglessel had taught him the intricate steps.

He had danced with ladies before, of course, other than his Naneth or his sister, but he would never have held them as closely as he held his wife. _Herbess_. He even enjoyed _thinking_ the word. “Then we turn right.” Smiling cheekily, he warned her only as he made the next move, twirling her in a half-spin and suddenly he was the one moving almost backwards but they were still headed in the same direction; moving around the large bonfire in the centre of the clearing. Nínimeth laughed brightly, her natural grace keeping her balanced as she moved with him. A few of the braver Nandor were attempting to join in, laughing merrily when they stepped on each other’s toes.

“Sorry!” Nínimeth said, wincing when she stepped wrong, her foot coming down hard on his. Thranduil just smiled. She was doing very well for a beginner, and slightly sore toes were a small enough price to pay for holding her close, the scent of apple-blossoms filling his nose.

“Don’t worry, _herbess-nîn_. Don’t think about where your feet are going,” he whispered, the hand at her waist sliding a little lower, pressing into her back to guide her. Nínimeth nodded, trying to follow the way he moved. Spinning around again, Thranduil was once more facing ‘forwards’, making Nínimeth glide back with each step. She stepped on his feet whenever she looked down. Thranduil winced. Moving the hand he held to rest on his shoulder, he cupped her face, tilting her head back up to look at him.

“Keep your eyes on my face, and put your hands on my shoulders,” he chuckled, wrapping his own around her waist. Nínimeth shot him a questioning look, but did as he asked. “One, two, three, step,” Thranduil counted quietly, “spin.” On spin, he picked her lithe form up off the forest floor, twirling in a circle and making her skirt flare out behind her. Nínimeth laughed joyously. Thranduil caught sight of Bronwe leading a chuckling Glíwen in the dance, while Drauchir studied them warily, his silently watchful stance familiar at the edge of the clearing.

“Do it again!” she giggled. Thranduil shook his head; it wasn’t meant to be done twice in a row, instead the lift-and-spin was to be timed with the rest of the couples in the dance. When she looked at him with those green eyes, however, he realised that he was powerless to resist her plea. With a loud laugh, he danced them a bit further away from the nearest couple.

“Ready?” he asked, winking mischievously. Nínimeth smiled brilliantly, her grip firm on his shoulders. Thranduil chuckled. Picking her up effortlessly, he spun around once more, nearly faltering when she leaned in to kiss him mid-spin. Setting Nínimeth back on her feet, Thranduil slid his hands down to rest on her hips as her arms tightened around his shoulders, both of them lost in the kiss. Around them, the rest of the Doriathren couples whirled on, like the current of a river parting on either side of a rock.

“This _is_ fun,” she whispered, when he finally pulled himself away from her mouth. Thranduil chuckled, leaning his forehead against hers. With a mischievous smile, Nínimeth pulled him away from the dancers, threading an easy path among the trees that lined the clearing, standing like sentinels watching over the dancing Elves.

“Where are we going?” Thranduil asked, squeezing her hand as he followed her in the starlight.

“Can you not guess, _hervenn_?” she purred, her eyes bright in the low light, her teeth pearly white as her mouth stretched in a sultry smile. His heart beat faster, instantly moving him to cup her face, taste her smile straight from her lips. Nínimeth’s arms went back over his shoulders, clinging to him. His own arms wrapped around her waist, one hand gliding down to cup her arse, rubbing over the roundness of her curves. “ _Hwin_ ,” she murmured, pulling him down on top of her and wrapping one leg around his good side, “I want you.” Part of him wondered if she expected him to deny her, but the thought vanished when she used her strong leg to press him tight into the cradle of her hips.

“No more dancing, my love?” he teased – or tried to, though it was probably lost in their breathless kisses. Sliding her flowing skirt – _he ought to be grateful Naneth had made Nínimeth a proper Doriathren dancing dress_ – up her soft legs, Thranduil lost himself in the feel of her smooth skin, the contrast between his pale flesh and her sun-kissed complexion. Removing his own loose trousers and the supple leather boots the Silvans favoured, Thranduil was surprised to find himself on his back, with his smirking wife straddling his naked hips, feeling her bare flesh teasing him every time she moved.

“Take your tunic off,” she whispered, leaning down to nip at his ear. Thranduil winced, though not in pain. He believed her when she told him she did not feel repulsed by the marring of his flesh caused by the dragon’s fire… but he still did not like her looking at the extent of the damage. It was bad enough that he couldn’t hide his face – his cheek was still a mottled mess of angry reds and shiny pink scarring – but he usually kept his clothes on, covering up the marks on the left side of his body. “Don’t hide from me, meleth,” she murmured, kissing him slowly as her hand trailed down his flesh, tracing the scars he covered up with the cloth, “I want all of you.” He opened his mouth to protest, but the flavour of her tongue – sweet wine and tart berries – derailed his thoughts effectively. Moving his hands to his neck, Thranduil slowly undid each small fastening – he had always liked small buttons, especially the ones made from pearls, which made Naneth laugh and call him her most Falmarin son – revealing the pale flesh marred by the scars that spanned half his chest. “You are beautiful,” she murmured into his mouth, making him chuckle.

“Not so beautiful as you, my forest sprite, my Nínimeth,” he replied, stroking her long crimson locks – such a rare colour in Doriath, though he had seen many Nandor with red hair, even if they had not had the same fiery hue as his Nínimeth. Fingering the brooch – one of Naneth’s starlight gems that she had never liked so well as her pearls – that held Nínimeth’s dress closed, Thranduil flicked the catch. The gossamer fabric fell from her shoulder, giving him tantalizing glimpses of her flesh when she rose above him once more. With a smirk, Nínimeth undid the other clasp, leaving her dress to pool at her waist. Above her, the stars shone, limning her skin with their gentle light.

“Beautiful,” she whispered, rising up slowly to guide him inside her. Thranduil hissed. With a smirk, his wife leaned down once more, running her tongue along the cloth he had left to partially obscure his scars. “Beautiful Hwin,” she murmured into his skin. “My Hwin. My brave love…”

“Did I ever thank you?” he asked suddenly, his voice hoarse with the pleasure coursing through him; the ruined flesh under her lips was strangely sensitive in places and deadened in others, but for once the scars were not bothering him.

“Thank me?” she murmured, rocking slowly on top of him. Thranduil knew better than to move; it had already become a game between them – one Nínimeth enjoyed immensely – seeing how much she could tease him before his control snapped and he abandoned his Doriathren restraint. “If you _ever_ thank me for loving you despite your scars, I will leave you,” she swore, stilling her hips.

“No!” Thranduil cried out, his hands pulling her close. “I cannot remember offering you my gratitude for saving my life,” he murmured, stealing a kiss from her lips as her anger melted away; her body once again soft and pliant atop his, the vessel of the greatest joy he had ever known. Nínimeth chuckled.

“You show me, every day,” she murmured, “every time you kiss me, every time you embrace a custom of my kin, you show me how much you love me, how grateful you are to be alive… as for saying the words… no, meleth, you have not, but I know you feel it.” She kept moving, scrambling his mind as she whispered huskily in his ear. Thranduil whimpered. “Even on the dark days when all you have lost rises up in your mind and you feel unworthy of survival when so many did not live, I know that you are grateful to be alive, grateful it was I who found you, who healed your flesh.”

“I love you, wife.” Nínimeth laughed, her kisses igniting his passions faster than he had ever believed possible. “Thank you.”

“I love you, husband,” she replied. “Even before you woke, looking at me with that one eye, I felt something for you,” she murmured between kisses, “Eglossion called me mad for feeling tenderness for a Sindar… but you were always _mine_.”

“My Nínimeth,” Thranduil whispered, his hands coming to rest on her hips as she moved, adding leverage to the thrusts he could not help making, feeling her slick flesh parting easily. “My wife.” Nínimeth rose once again, changing her angle with a gasp, her nipples hard and begging for him to suckle as the shadows of the branches moving overhead painted dark lines across her flesh, pale in the starlight.

“Hwin…” she sighed, when his mouth found his target, her hands pressing against the back of his head, tangling in the pale strands of his hair. “My Prince of starlight,” she mumbled, tugging on the long locks. Thranduil smothered his chuckle against her flesh, feeling her quiver around him, knowing how close she was to the edge of her pleasure. One of his hands moved in between them, finding the right place to add pressure and friction as he claimed her mouth in one more kiss. Nínimeth cried out, the sound only muffled slightly by his mouth, but Thranduil did not care, following her into an explosion of light and feeling himself surrounded by her love, their joy mingling.

 

* * *

 

“There’s going to be a tower, stretching up towards the stars; you’ll be able to see all across the forest!” he explained, gesturing excitedly at the still-bare hillside - Amon Lanc, they had named it, Naked Hill, but it would not continue to be, they would build a glorious new home here, over-looking the great Greenwood. “Naneth likes to be able to see the sun, so there will be a balcony running along the outside a little further than half-way up the wall,” he added, trying to paint it in Nínimeth’s mind. “The courtyard will be spanned by archways – one of the best Doriathren architects is my ada’s nephew – and a couple of smaller buildings around the main structure, of course; the stables and training grounds.”

“It sounds like a lot of work,” Nínimeth laughed, “and strange to me, if not for what I have seen in the Westerlands.”

“Your people do not build cities?” he glanced at her, trying to stop himself from taking her hand to feel the softness of her skin, see the golden colour next to his own pale hues. Nínimeth – he ought to have called her something else, but somehow the name suited her, even if she is as far from a snowdrop as an elf could possibly be – his Nínimeth, _his betrothed_ , is a study of warm colours, from the sunny gold of her skin, to the reds of her hair.

 

* * *

 

 

“No,” he whispered, staring at the gory sight before him. “No!” he screamed, running even as he knew that no matter how swiftly he ran, it would still be _too late_. The elleth with crimson hair looked up at the sound of his cry, but the ellon she held did not stir, his chest did not rise. “Thalion,” Thranduil moaned, falling to his knees beside his wife and his oldest son. “Thalion!” Shaking the prince’s shoulder did nothing but make his head loll. Thranduil became aware of a low keening sound, surprised to hear it emanating from his own throat. He reached for his Nínimeth, needing her to be real, be _warm_ , _alive._

“You promised me, Thranduil,” she hissed, throwing off his touch and bending over their son’s corpse once more. “You promised me you would protect them!” She screamed; the sound of a wounded animal as she pulled away from him. Thranduil stared. “My son, my son,” Nínimeth crooned, looking half-crazed as she sobbed into Thalion’s hair, so similar to her own. “You _killed_ my son!” This time, her screams were words, sharper than the blades he had wielded in battle until he thought the strength of his arms would fail him. He flinched back from her, her usually green and laughing eyes turned black with something he couldn’t bear to call hatred, but which looked like nothing else. Her words reverberated in his mind. _My son, my son, you killed MY son!_

“Nínimeth,” he croaked, again reaching for her, attempting to offer some sort of comfort, some kind of solace with his presence as he needed her to grant him the solace of her touch, but she drew away from him, rocking back and forth as she cradled their dead firstborn. “Meleth-nîn,” he tried again, drawing back in shock when she slashed at him. Thranduil could only stare at her, his hand still half-stretched towards her.

“I grieve for your loss,” Captain Bronwe said quietly behind him. Thranduil nodded woodenly, fearful that he had lost more than just the life of his son. “… my King,” Bronwe continued, making Thranduil stare up at him. The words did not make sense to him, at first, but when Bronwe bent his knee, bowing as a vassal to his liege, Thranduil _knew_.

“Adar…?” he whispered, feeling woefully unable to cope with the grief that enveloped him when Bronwe nodded solemnly. His father was dead, and his first-born, too. Thranduil had watched so many fall, but these losses would haunt him forever, he knew, too numb to let the anger he felt at Oropher’s recklessness flare properly to life. Instead, he could only sit, staring at his wife as the blood that had spilled upon the ground soaked into his clothes. _His son’s blood_. Thranduil shuddered. Nínimeth did not seem to have heard either of them, only capable of rocking Thalion’s dead body back and forth, as though he were still small and had suffered a nightmare, seeking the safety of his parents’ bed. Thranduil did not know where he found the strength to get to his feet, moving to where Nínimeth was still sat. “Come on, meleth-nîn,” he whispered, pulling her up by the elbow. Nínimeth rose, staggering like a drunken mortal, but she refused to let go of Thalion, hoisting him into her arms. Bronwe stared. Thranduil shrugged. He did not wish to see if her eyes were still black, did not wish to hear her repeat the words that had already carved scars in his soul. _You killed MY son!_

 

* * *

 

 

The water was cool and clear, the perfect refreshment on a hot day in the vast Forest. Nínimeth smirked, looking back at her new husband over her shoulder.

“Swim with me, Hwin!” she called, dismounting swiftly and letting her loose dress pool on the verdant grass beneath her bare feet. She heard the breath he drew in, his surprise at her daring. Nínimeth did not tell him that it was not uncommon for Silvans to be bare while swimming – even if they weren’t married. No one else had found a rest in this small glade and Nínimeth waded happily into the water, enjoying the feeling of the sun on her bare shoulders, undoing the plaits that kept her crimson locks contained as she walked through the water.

 

Staring after the vision of his wife, Hwiniedir could not believe his eyes. Gaping at her, standing boldly in the sunlight, her crimson tresses looking like freshly spilled blood with hints of fire; he wanted to remember that image forever. When she released the catches that held her dress together at the shoulders, he actually gasped at her audacity. She was completely naked – a sight that immediately made his loins stir with hunger – in a place where anyone might come across them!

 

He caught her quickly, as she had known he would, his strong arms wrapping closely around her middle before the water had even reached her thighs. Somewhere, he had found the courage to ignore his upbringing, joining her in the freedom of her nakedness, and Nínimeth relaxed into his arms, rewarding her Hwin with a deep kiss. Pulling his hand with a laugh, she walked deeper into the forest pool, until the water was lapping at her breasts.

“Come on, Hwin,” she laughed, turning around to face him, the darkening of his eyes an obvious sign of his desire. Floating on her back, she waited for him to join her.

“My little forest-sprite,” he chuckled, smiling as he pulled her into another kiss. The water might be cool, but Hwiniedir’s pale skin was warm, his arms strong around her body as he kissed her breathless. Wrapping one leg around his hip, Nínimeth rubbed herself against him, enjoying the light gasp she elicited from her stoically raised husband. Making him lose his calm façade was rapidly becoming her favourite thing. She hadn’t realised how different the Doriathrim were from her own people – her parents might be from different clans, but they were still Green-Elves – but she loved him anyway. Tracing the skin along Hwin’s cheek, no longer raw and burnt, but still a dark scar where the fire had eaten away his flesh, Nínimeth gave herself up to the power of the kiss. He had not cared, at first, about the injuries he had sustained, but she knew that he found the scars unsightly, even though she tried to show him that she did not care at all. In truth, Nínimeth liked the scars, proof that her husband was a brave warrior, who had fought a dragon and won. He was hardly the only scarred warrior of her acquaintance, even though scars usually faded with the years passing. Hwiniedir moved his face, making her hand fall into the water with a light splash. Breathing hard, he rested his forehead against hers, his hands roaming her bare skin beneath the water.

“You shouldn’t look-” he began, but Nínimeth pressed her glistening fingertips to his lips for silence.

“I care not, _meleth_ ,” she whispered, kissing the side of his mouth closest to the scar. “As I care not that you see me with only one eye, I do not mind the scars.” Kissing him was also one of her favourite things. “You are my one love, _heryn vuin, hervenn-nîn_ ,” she continued, tracing one of his broad shoulders with her wet hand, feeling one of his gliding through the long wet strands of her hair to cradle her neck. “I loved you, lying in my tent unable to move for screaming.” Kissing him slowly, moving her lips to caress his ruined flesh gently, Nínimeth smiled when she felt him respond, his hands running over her back. “I loved you then, and I only love you more now that you are healed and I can do this,” with a smirk, Nínimeth slipped her hand down his chest, tracing across the broad expanse of scarred skin to trail her fingers gently along his hip-bone, gripping the hardest part of him in her firm hand. Hwiniedir’s breath left him explosively, his body surging forward into her palm. His hand, still cradling her head, brought her mouth back to his lips, claiming a kiss as his other hand found the curve of her buttock.

“Nínimeth,” he whimpered, as she stroked him, loving the expression of almost painful pleasure that stole across his face, distorted by the scars, yes, but that made it only more beautiful to see, to feel the power over this glorious warrior she held in her smaller hand.

“Come to me, hervenn,” she teased, rubbing him against her folds, parting her legs to wrap around his waist.

“I would…” Thranduil whispered, staring at the golden vision of his memory, remembering clearly what had happened in that forest pool… and again once they had returned to shore. He remembered the glorious sight of her naked skin, golden in the sunlight and glistening with droplets of water that begged him to catch each one with his tongue, _remembered_ how she had felt above him, _surrounding_ him… but that was the problem. He _remembered_. “I would, _meleth_ ,” he murmured, feeling tears sliding down his face, “but you’re not real. You are not close enough for me to reach out and touch you.” He tried anyway, the image of her turning into wisps of coloured smoke before his eyes, transforming his beloved queen from her happy self and bombarding him with images of her as she had been most recently, her temper caught between catatonic and raging tempest.

Thranduil wept.

 

 

In the silence of the stars, he wandered, seeing ghost-like wisps of memories that tried to keep him, tried to find the soul that was tied to each of them, the strand that had snapped with the silent fall of the curtain that separated Middle-Earth from Aman. He knew what had happened, and that he should try to wake, but the stars were calm, and Nínimeth's voice was all around him, her smile mirrored in a thousand apparitions before his eyes.

Rhonith had managed to get Nínimeth on a ship, and she had passed beyond the shores of Middle-Earth. He knew that he would not find her waiting at the other end of their bond. But still, he could not stop his soul from reaching out, walking among the stars, looking for her. He tried to return to his body. It was difficult. The connection was there and there were important reasons why he should, but he could not seem to manage the full joining.

He drifted.

The stars were beautiful around him.


	6. Secrets

…“You do not care for Legolas!” her accusation was flung at Thonnon where he sprawled on the throne. “You were given a duty and if you cannot even care for one child, hand the duty to one of us. _We_ will care for the Leafling. He is our-.”

The loud sound of Thonnon’s hand striking flesh interrupted the angry plea. “How dare you defy me!” he shouted. Legolas made himself very small and stayed behind the large vase of flowers that stood beside the throne. He liked the flowers, the bright white petals and the green leaves that spilled over the edge of the vase.

The brown-haired elleth fell to the ground hard. Legolas looked up at the sound of her whimper. Her brown eyes searched out his hiding spot, and she tried to smile at him, blood running down her face where Thonnon’s ring had cut into her cheek.

“Know your place, Silvan!” Thonnon hissed, the same tone of voice he used when Legolas was in bad trouble. He crouched, pushing the elleth’s hair out of her face; she tried to move away from him. “You may have ensnared my brother, somehow, but you do not get to speak to me as an equal. I will care for him as I see fit, and if I _ever_ hear you say otherwise, you _will_ regret it.”

The elleth’s brown eyes widened in fear as another came to take her away. Legolas stayed behind the vase, making himself as small and unnoticeable as possible. That expression on Thonnon’s face never meant anything good would happen to him…

 

Legolas shook off the memory of the lady’s tears and looked at the still figure on the bed, confused as usual why Lord Thonnon brought him here; the elf had always been asleep, and even Thonnon’s loudest shouts would not wake him. He was dressed in a fine robe, his long pale hair arranged neatly around his face and flowing down his shoulders, a blanket pulled up to his chest, and wore no jewellery except a small golden ring. The elf breathed slowly, his eyes closed as they had been every time Legolas had been brought to see him.

The attendant had retreated to a corner, mouth drawn in hard lines and her eyes narrowed in a scowl that made Legolas want to cringe away, even though she wasn’t scowling at _him_. No, her eyes were fixed on Lord Thonnon, who was sneering down at the elf on the bed. He did not speak, and Legolas knew better than to question him; Thandir – when he visited, which was rare – would sometimes answer questions, but Lord Thonnon preferred Legolas to be silent in his Lord’s presence.

Shying away from the attendant’s dark expression would have meant hiding behind Thonnon and he would push Legolas away and call him a snivelling brat, maybe take away his evening meal as punishment if he was very angry. In his head, Legolas always referred to himself as Legolas. Lord Thonnon did not call him Legolas, mostly referring to him as ‘you’, or ‘elfling’, or ‘brat’, and it was the only way he would remember his true name. Legolas knew there was no one to comfort him and no one who dared shield him from his lords’ wrath. He knew that Lord Thonnon disliked him because he told him so, even if it had not already been obvious every time he looked at Legolas. He also knew why; Legolas was born cursed, and his touch had made the Queen fall victim to a witch’s spell that made her crazy. Thonnon had explained to him once, that the sleeping elf had sent the Queen west. Since then, he had lost control of his soul, which was why Lord Thonnon had been saddled with the burden of Legolas. Legolas did not understand how that worked, but Thonnon said so, so it must be true. He didn’t dare touch other people – _what if the same thing happened to them?_ – and spent most of his time in his own company.

 

Later that day, after Legolas had been handed his bowl of gruel for dinner and been sent to bed – if a small pallet on the floor could be considered a bed – one of the Silvans entered the room he slept in. Legolas was confused. He was quite sure that it was not morning, and no one was supposed to be in here with him. Thonnon said it was weak to be scared of the dark, and Legolas should learn to comfort himself. He did not want to be bothered by the silly fears of an elfling and Legolas had learned to stay silent.

“Good evening, Leafling,” she whispered. Legolas was confused, but he realised she must mean him. The elleth had tears in her large green eyes and Legolas wanted to reach out and pat her arm, like Thandir once did to the brown-haired elleth who called him Legolas – it had made her smile. He didn’t move, remembering Thonnon’s edict clearly: he shouldn’t touch people; he might infect them with the same ailment that had struck the Queen. “Do you want to go see your Ada with me?” she asked, tilting her head to look at him.

“Ada?” Legolas did not know who she meant. What was an Ada? Maybe it was food, he was a little hungry. He nodded.

“Yes. I think we should go see your Ada,” she said, holding out her hand. Legolas cringed away, but the elleth kept reaching towards him. Her eyes were so sad. _Maybe if he held her hand she would feel better? But what if he hurt her?_ Legolas teetered indecisively, almost reaching for her but drawing his small hand back just before he touched hers. “Will you take my hand, Leafling?” she asked, holding out her own once more. He dared to take it. Nothing seemed to happen, and he breathed out a sigh of relief. Maybe the magic only worked on Queens? “Can I carry you there? It will be faster. We have to be quiet so no one sees us.” Her smile was tremulous, but fierce and it made something in Legolas’ belly feel warm, far warmer than his food had ever managed.

“Secret?” he mumbled. He knew what secrets were, often left forgotten in a corner while adults discussed things others weren’t meant to hear. The elleth nodded, smiling at him.

“Yes, it’s a secret.”

 

 _Ada_ was the elf, Legolas realised, when she pushed open to door to the room with the large bed; the attendant who was always there when Thonnon brought him, however, was gone, and the room was silent, light shadows of moonlight falling across the face on the pillow.

After that night, sometimes one of the elves would come and pick him up and take him to the room with the sleeping elf. They all called him Leafling, and the sleeping elf his Ada. He didn’t quite believe them when they said so, of course; there was no way the sleeping elf was his _father_ , after all, but sometimes – just sometimes – he liked to pretend they were right. Sometimes, he’d dream that the sleeping elf would hold him when _he_ slept, and give him happy dreams; those were the best kind of dreams.

They did not care if he touched the elf’s clothes and sometimes one of them would sing him to sleep when they brought him back to his tiny room. It was never the same elf, and Legolas did not know their names.

He kept the secret.


	7. Arriving in Aman

“Lady Avornien, we have reached Aman.”

The ellon who opened the small cabin door spoke softly, directing his words at the dark-haired elleth. He might have pitied the hand-maiden, but Avornien was almost as aloof as her mistress, and rarely left the Queen’s side, shunning all offers of company or comfort for herself. Avornien nodded silently, though the elleth beside her did not react to either his words or his presence. He could not tell if the Queen had heard any of his previous messages either, for she neither moved nor looked at anyone entering her cabin. She had not spoken a word since the night before they cast off from the Grey Havens, and the sailor did not expect a reply. He was not disappointed. Shrugging, the ellon left without another word, secretly glad to leave the oppressive silence of the Queen’s cabin.

Queen Nínimeth of Greenwood did little but sit silent and statue-like in her corner of the darkened cabin, staring into the air before her. Of the serene and graceful Queen Nínimeth had been, few traces remained. Her skin, once a vibrant golden hue, was pale and paper-thin; she rarely consented to eat at all, and though the journey was no longer than expected, she had grown gaunt rather than slender, a bloom buried by winter. Nothing sparked a reaction in her leaf-green eyes, and her once-vibrantly red hair hung dull and lank in snarls down her back. Her green gown, the same she had worn since their last night in the Havens, was grimy and tattered in places. She would not permit anyone removing it, nor would she change into other clothes if they were brought.

Compared to her tempestuous rages back in the Woodland Palace, railing against the world that had plunged her into such grief, she was eerily still. Where, once, she would scream and fight, attacking her husband, her kin, and any servants who dared come near her, Nínimeth was little more than a shell. None of her fiery joyful spirit lingered in her leaf-green eyes, not even embers left to show the remnants of the soul she had been, the fiery heart of her people, and – perhaps more importantly – the heart of their _King_.

Avornien might be one of the only ones to remember the death that she believed had started it all, more than 3000 years before. Drauchirion – too young to earn himself a name – had been playing with his older sister in a sun-dappled forest glade. He had been no more than 110 summers when his life was ended at the hand of an orc raiding party, his death too swift to be stopped, even by Nínimeth’s arrows. Of those left in the Woodland Realm, surely, she was the only one who knew how much her eldest son had reminded her of her young brother; Thalion had shared very few features with his sire, being nearly a perfect image of his late uncle. If it had not been Orcs, Avornien thought, or if the wounds that had claimed both lives had not been so eerily similar, perhaps Nínimeth might have been able to cope with the loss of her first-born. In truth, if she had not so viciously accused his equally grief-struck father of failing to protect him, much might have been different, but that was a viewpoint Avornien carefully kept to herself. She had breathed a deep sigh of relief the day her friend had finally cast off some of the shadowy shackles in her mind.

Nínimeth had been too strong to fade, then, the joy of a life free of the dark taint of Sauron influencing her enough to fight her way back from the mire of grief. It had taken her years to escape her crushing grief and begin reconciling with her estranged husband, at last, but though they had managed to find love once more, the peace had not lasted. Together, Thranduil and Nínimeth had ruled the Greenwood, enjoying this new era of peace, even if the spectre of Mordor loomed in both their hearts; neither was convinced that the Ring of Power had truly been lost when Isildur was killed.

The Leafling had been surprising to his parents, as Nínimeth once put it ‘he wanted to be born to us’, but their people had celebrated; the birth of a new life was always a joyous occasion, but even more so when the King and Queen were expecting. Nínimeth had been radiant, happier than she had believed she could ever be again after the death of her most beloved son, and the Queen had glowed with happiness all through the pregnancy; up until the day when a careless youth running through the Halls had knocked her into a wall. The accident, resulting in no more than a minor scrape along Nínimeth’s arm, had brought to life fears the Queen had believed gone, dark thoughts convincing her that her new elfling would follow his oldest brother into death as soon as he left her body.

After the birth, a long and arduous process compared to her first three sons, Nínimeth’s mind recoiled. The pain and fear of losing her youngest child battered the Queen’s weakened defences, and the grief that had trapped her after the death of her first-born resurged once more. Nínimeth had named the child, for she had seen that he would grow to be a far-ranging ellon, and his name, Legolas, Green-leaves, would remind her son where he came from; remind him of his Woodland home. Avornien knew that her friend loved her new son, but it was simply overshadowed by her grief, and she had not managed to care for him as she should have, being in turns smotheringly attentive and completely indifferent to the elfling’s needs.

Blaming her husband for the death of their first-born son and determined to keep her new leafling from the same fate, Nínimeth set to keeping him away from Thranduil at all costs. Avornien had been there to watch her King’s heart splinter and break, had worked with Lady Rhonith to ensure that Legolas was properly cared for – and smuggled him out to see Thranduil for an hour here or there, when Nínimeth’s delusions allowed it. When Nínimeth barred Thranduil from her rooms, Avornien had protested, knowing that the elleth needed her husband to get her through the fear that haunted her mind – just as much as Thranduil needed his wife and Legolas his Naneth. None of their words had made any difference, however, as Nínimeth’s darkness rose up once more to claim her. Even the stubborn determination of Lady Rhonith had come up short when trying to fight the Queen’s delusions.

 

To the others on the ship, the Queen of Greenwood was a peculiar non-entity, so broken as to be unrecognisable to those who had known her in better times. She had not fought when the peredhel she called gwathel had led her across the gangplank, but it was clear that she had not arrived in the Grey Havens under her own power. Some elves on the ship had been whispering, wondering if they would incur the wrath of the Valar for bringing someone along who had not chosen to sail; Nínimeth paid them as little mind as she did anything else.

Avornien, who had chosen to journey with her, hissed meanly every time she caught wind of such nonsense; the peace of Aman was a promise made to all Elves. The handmaiden – that was the title she gave herself, though her duties did not mirror those of handmaidens elsewhere – had promised her King that she would see her oldest friend to the Undying Lands; none who had seen the Queen in her final days at home would deny that her only other option was fading away into death – a prospect King Thranduil had been unable to bear. She may not have chosen it for herself, being too far lost even to make simple choices such as what to eat, but Nínimeth would arrive in the Undying Lands, even if Avornien had to swim all the way there with her. Although the journey was a one-way trip, Avornien would never abandon her friend to wake in unfamiliar lands surrounded by nought but unfamiliar faces. They were expecting to be met by Nenglessel, Thranduil’s mother, who had gone West years before, unable to cope with her sea-longing and the darkening of the world as Sauron’s power increased, but an _ontarie,_ as Nenglessel was only family through marriage, was not the same as a trusted friend in Avornien’s mind.

 

Avornien’s first glimpse of the shores of Aman, the sun only just beginning to paint the pale sand golden, was marred by the silence of her friend beside her. She had coerced Nínimeth onto the deck, thinking that the air might wake her for a moment or two, the light of Aman touching her tormented fëa. Nínimeth, however, did not see the beautiful lands, did not see the welcoming faces of the Elves on the dock. Avornien breathed in the peculiarly sweet air, feeling tendrils of peace stealing over her soul like curious fingers exploring a new lover. Nínimeth seemed oblivious to her surroundings as usual.

“Selya!” The joyful cry broke through Avornien’s reverie, making her smile in memory. Nenglessel had never completely embraced the Sindarin language of her husband’s folk, peppering her speech with the Quenya expressions of her own kin.

On the dock, the crowd parted, letting a regal elleth in a blue dress through. The first Queen of Greenwood smiled brilliantly, spreading her arms in welcome. Avornien waved, though she found it difficult to return her former Queen’s smile. Nínimeth did not move a muscle, staring across the shores unseeing. The Dowager Queen’s face fell. With the light quick steps of a born dancer, she crossed the gangway in moments, her silver-pale hair billowing in the wind, and no one standing in her way.

“Queen Nenglessel,” Avornien greeted, bowing respectfully, but Nenglessel’s attention was firmly on her good-daughter’s blank face. She reached for her slowly, like one might a wild animal, trying not to startle it, but Avornien still held her breath, expecting the same violent reaction to her touch that those few who had tried on the ship had received.

“Ai, Selya…” Nenglessel whispered, as her hands finally made contact with Nínimeth’s cheeks, gently running her fingers along the edge of a pointed ear. “I grieve with you.” Nínimeth crumpled, wordlessly weeping against Nenglessel’s chest. Avornien felt an overwhelming sense of relief, nearly staggering on her feet as she stared at the Dowager Queen. “I am so sorry," Nenglessel whispered. "The loss of a child is... this pain will never truly fade, my darling daughter.” Nenglessel’s dress was growing damp, but she did not seem to notice or care, wrapping her arms around Nínimeth’s shaking shoulders and whispering comforting words into her snarled hair.

 

* * *

 

 

The large home Nenglessel had brought her guests to, perching on a cliff overlooking the wild Sea on one side, and the cove of Alqualondë on the other, was spacious enough for three, easily; it had been built for a family of five plus household servants. Nenglessel had returned to her first home, the house her Atar had built, though neither her parents nor siblings lived in the building, and had not done so since the Kinslaying. Nínimeth had been shown to her new bedroom, and the younger Queen was fast asleep, the very air of Valinor already beginning to soothe her tortured soul.

“Queen Nenglessel,” Avornien said solemnly. The sound of the waves beating against the base of the cliffs made her uneasy, taking refuge in formality. Nenglessel had considered taking up an abode in one of the wooded areas of Aman, but she thought Nínimeth might do better in a place that bore little resemblance to the home she had left behind. Avornien’s discomfort would ease in time; the Sea might not be in her blood, but she had the bravery and curiosity of her Nandorin ancestors and Nenglessel had far less worries about her second guest than she felt for her good-daughter.

“Just Nenglessel or Nenalassië, child. I am no longer a Queen,” Nenglessel smiled kindly. A few of the Sindar had tried to give her a properly Sindarin name when she arrived in Doriath, but Nenglessel had denied them all; she had had no desire to change her own name, with its ties to her Telerin heritage, even in its Sindarized form. Nenalassië she had been named at birth, and when her sea-longing finally took her home to the shores of her childhood, she would be Nenalassië still. It was one of the things she had loved most about Faerbraichon, right from the beginning. He had never tried to change her, and her name was her basic nature. Becoming the Queen of a land of trees had made her no less Water Joy than she had been living with the spray of waves upon her face and the jewels of the sea in her hair.

Thinking about her husband made her smile, even if it carried a wistful tinge. The loss of their two eldest had mellowed him slightly, but she was under no illusions that her beloved Faerbraichon was lost underneath the weight of Oropher’s responsibilities as King of Greenwood, and in her heart of hearts she was not surprised to hear of his end. Nenglessel had never thought Oropher suited her husband as well as Faerbraichon. Her husband was tall, yes, and had the colouring of a beech tree, but he never lost the fierceness and impetuous nature that had given him his first name.

“Nenglessel.” Avornien looked slightly uncomfortable omitting the title, but she persevered regardless. “I have brought letters from King Thranduil, for you and for Nínimeth. He asked that you read his words to her when she could understand them.” The elleth held out a bundle of paper, closed and sealed with green wax embossed with Thranduil’s seal, a maple leaf.

Nenglessel reached out, almost hesitantly, and took the bundle. The topmost letter bore her name in her son’s sure flowing Tengwar. She smiled faintly; reminiscing about long hours spent teaching a small blonde elfling how to write with her people’s letters in his father’s tongue. Tracing the Capital N of her own name slowly, Nenglessel smiled gently at the fidgeting handmaiden.

“Thank you, child,” she said, trying to relax her guest. “I will read these words in peace and impart my son’s letter to his wife as soon as she wakes.”

Avornien did not protest being called a child, for Nenglessel had been born under the light of the two trees, but she did feel the need to protest Nenglessel’s plan. “Nínimeth will not understand, my Lady… her mind is broken by grief. She blamed King Thranduil for the death of Thalion, even more than she blamed King Oropher…” she paused, blushing, but Nenglessel waved her on; she had heard much about the War of the Last Alliance and her late husband’s foolishly reckless charge. In truth, she rather agreed with her good-daughter; Oropher’s recklessness had surely killed them, even if it had been the weapons of Orcs that cut into the bodies of her people “She had days where she did not even remember her elfling’s face, let alone his name,” Avornien admitted, but Nenglessel saw the pain her face could not quite hide, and thought it was an understatement; grief could do terrible things, she knew, and some wounds could reopen without warning.

“Then I shall read the letter to her every day until she does remember,” Nenglessel replied, a steel core in her voice that brooked no disagreement.

Avornien nodded meekly, submitting easily to the Queen’s will. Nenglessel might have left the title of Queen behind, but she still held a Queen’s bearing and command.

 

 


	8. Awakening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've had several days of no internet, and a highly insistent muse = more chapters!

This evening, he had been picked up by an elleth who smelled like bread and who was surprisingly plump around the middle compared to other ellith in the Halls. He would call her bread-girl, Legolas decided, when she pulled him up on her hip. She handed him a tiny berry tart – the kind he had seen Thonnon eat for dinner but not been allowed to taste – and hastened down the corridor.

Legolas liked bread-girl, he decided, feeling warm and comfortable in her arms. Like the others, she did not pull away from his touch, but unlike the rest of his co-conspirators, she did not put him down on the floor. Instead, she had put him down on the bed with the sleeping elf. Legolas did not know why, staring confused at her smiling face.

“I think your Ada needs a hug, hmm?” she whispered, gesturing to the sleeping elf. Legolas looked between the two faces a few times. One was serene in its blankness, the other was smiling with sad eyes, but bread-girl _had_ given him that berry tart, so maybe he owed her something in return?

Legolas pulled himself up, trying to bend over the sleeping elf to give him the hug she had asked for. His feet slid on the soft sheets, however, making him fall over and land on the elf’s chest with a _thump!_ Legolas turned worried eyes towards bread-girl, who was looking towards the door. He could not get up and now the sleeping elf was going to get hurt!

Legolas began crying. The door burst open just as a large arm wrapped itself securely around his trembling body.

 

Waking up was disorienting after so long among the silent stars. A child was crying softly into his chest, and Thranduil automatically wrapped his arms around the elfling. Angry shouting and a door bashing against the wall made him open his eyes, just in time to see Thonnon throw Maeassel away from where she had been standing in front of him, shouting something incomprehensible to Thranduil’s mind. After all, if his little Leaf had wanted to see him, why would Thonnon call it disobedience? The elfling wailed louder. Thranduil rubbed the small shoulders with one hand, repositioning the elfling with the other. The pale hair, so reminiscent of his own, made him smile.

“ _Lassig_[1],” he murmured, turning the elfling to face him. “Why do you cry?”

 

The arm was nice and warm, but it was the voice that made him look up, staring fearfully at that face that had always been sleeping, but would surely become angry as soon as he realised how hurt he was. Legolas must have hurt him badly, otherwise, why would he have woken up _now_ when he had never even stirred when Thonnon shouted at him?

“Lassig… why do you cry?” Large fingers wiped away his tears, soft and warm against his skin.

Legolas sniffled. He could hear Thonnon screaming at bread-girl behind him, but he could only stare into the soft blue eyes of the sleeping elf, who was staring at him. He sniffled again, trying to stop his tears in case the elf would get angry with him for crying, but the elf kept touching him, so maybe that was okay. “Hurt you. I felleded.” He hiccupped the sentence, slurring the words in his haste to get them out. Maybe if the elf understood that it was an accident, he would not tell Thonnon to punish him?

“Oh, Lassig,” The elf was smiling at him; Legolas did not understand why. “You are so precious. You could never hurt me, Leafling.”

 

Thranduil’s heart broke at the look on the small face, the fear in those eyes. He kept his voice gentle as he cradled his youngest son close. Finally, the noise in the room broke through his preoccupied thoughts.

“What in the name of the Sacred Stag is going on here!” he thundered. Silence fell instantly, as the two adults in the room whipped around to stare at him. Legolas wept quietly and Thranduil could only hold the little boy closer, soothing him through touch.

“Thranduil Aran!” Maeassel cried, bursting into tears. The bruise on her cheek seemed forgotten, though it must have hurt her to smile so widely. “You are returned at last!”

“I am returned, Maeassel. Now, what is going on.” Thonnon tried to speak, but Thranduil held up a hand to stop him; even if he had been unaware of his son’s temper, Maeassel’s bruised face would have given her first rights to speak. Her hand was resting on what he now noticed was a significant pregnancy beneath her clothes, and his anger grew. Striking a bearing elleth was a terrible crime, and she had landed awkwardly on her side trying to protect her unborn child. Maeassel hiccupped a few sobs but managed coherent words after a few false tries.

“I was… I was bringing the elfling to you. Lord Thonnon did not approve,” she said hesitantly, and he could see her eyes flick fearfully in the direction of his second-eldest son. Thranduil frowned.

“I see,” he said, though he knew that pieces of the puzzle were missing, leaving gaping holes in the picture. “Thonnon.” Stern blue eyes, stormy with rage, sought the green eyes of the second – first, now, which still struck him with unexpected grief when he corrected himself mentally – Prince of Greenwood. “Go fetch me your brother.”

“Adar-” Thonnon began, but Thranduil narrowed his eyes and his son fell silent, turning stiffly and marching out of the small bedroom.

When the door swung shut behind Thonnon, Thranduil turned his gaze to the fidgeting Maeassel. “Now, firstly, congratulations, Maeassel,” he nodded towards her belly, amused to see her blush so fiercely at his words.

“Thank you, Thranduil Aran,” she said, rubbing her belly gently, her smile slowly filling with the same gentle pride that had suffused his Nínimeth’s face every time she had been carrying a child under her heart.

“I take it your efforts with my good Captain were not in vain.” Thranduil felt at little smug at the way she gaped at him, the heat in her cheeks spreading further as she nodded. Thranduil nodded at her, but continued in a more serious tone, saving his happiness at this joy for a later time when he could share it with his old friend. “I want you to tell me why Thonnon dared to hit you for bringing an elfling to his ada.” Maeassel’s eyes turned tearful once more.

“You _are_ my Adar?” Legolas piped up from where he had snuggled into Thranduil’s chest, which seemed to squeeze painfully at the wistfulness of the elfling’s question. If those words were not enough to condemn his eldest children in his eyes, Thranduil would never know what could be worse. Tightening his arms around Legolas, he wanted to follow Maeassel’s example and burst into tears. Instead, he pulled himself together and sat up, greatly assisted by the appearance of a few pillows and Maeassel’s hand on his shoulder.

“Yes, Legolas, I am your Adar. I am Thranduil Elvenking and you are my beloved son.” He bent his knees, making a cradle for the small elfling who looked puzzled. Stroking the soft cheek of his son, Thranduil smiled. “I have not seen you in so long, my Leafling, and you have grown so much, but never doubt that you are my son.” It broke his heart that the words were necessary, but Legolas’ small smile went some ways towards mending it. Glancing at Maeassel and gesturing her to continue her story, Thranduil settled against the pillows, cradling his son as the child fell into exhausted sleep, his mind whirling with questions he hardly dared to ask, even in his own mind. What had happened to his Realm, his people, _his son?_

“My Lord… things have been… bad… since you…went away,” she began haltingly. “Lord Thonnon has been ruling here for five years, now, and Lord Thandir only rarely visits the Halls; they were both angry that you made the Queen sail, and they would not believe the words of Silvans when we told them how she…” Maeassel trailed off and Thranduil could not decide if he should be grateful for her discretion or chide her for trying to spare his feelings. He knew better than most how Nínimeth had lost herself after all.

“Thandir is not here?” he asked, frowning; he had specifically instructed the both of them to share the burden of ruling in his absence.

“No, my Lord, he… Lord Thonnon struck Arassiel, and Lord Thandir went with her back to the northern reaches. He comes to the Halls for Midsummer, but he never stays long,” Maeassel said.

“I had expected Thandir to be wiser than that; his brother should not rule alone, as I told him, for his temper is ill-suited to the Crown… And Bronwe? Did he not…” Thranduil asked, though he knew that his oldest friend would have done all he could to fulfil his wishes. Maeassel hugged herself tightly.

“They would not listen, my King,” she whispered, “Lord Thonnon threatened to banish Bronwe, to send him away to the south and bar him entry. Your people are frightened, my Lord, and rebellion brews; they call him Thonnon the Tyrant, these days.” Thranduil shuddered, but he could sense no deception in her words.

“I had hoped…” he mumbled, shaking his head – it did no good to wish things had been different. “What of Lady Rhonith?” he asked, “Has there been no word?” He had not expected her to take up residence in his Halls again, the loss of her sister would pain her too much, he knew, but he had expected her to visit, at least to look in on Legolas.

“A few letters, my King,” Maeassel replied, her forehead wrinkling in thought, “but Lord Thonnon made her unwelcome in your absence, I think; he spoke very unkindly to her when she last visited… six years ago.” Her eyes darted to Legolas’ sleeping face, and for a moment Thranduil imagined what Thonnon could have said to make his ward leave the place she had called home for many years, what threats an ellon drunk on power might have made. He shuddered. The images in his mind were terrifying, far worse than he had ever imagined his second son – prone to jealousy and far too disdainful of the Silvan population of Greenwood, preferring to think himself only Sindar – could have become. And still, he could not call Maeassel a liar, knowing her to be forthright and honest in all things, among those he valued most highly for her bravery in bringing the concerns of his people to his ears.

“Legolas…” He did not truly wish to know, fearing the worst, but he had to know all the same, know why his youngest elfling did not even know him to be his father. Maeassel’s tears flowed silently once more.

“He… he blamed the leafling,” she whispered, “for the Queen, made him believe that her absence was somehow Legolas’ fault. And yet, he kept the Leafling with him, most of the time; none of us were allowed to have much to do with him. Myself and a few of the other ladies have been bringing him here, in secret, hoping that his presence might wake you, might give you… comfort.” Maeassel hid hear face in her hands, her sobs sounding almost relieved; Thranduil thought he understood. To the Silvans he had left behind, his return would be a lifting of fear, a return to their normal lives even without their beloved Queen.

“Maeassel,” Thranduil began, “I thank you.” Staring down at the elfling who still resembled him so much, Thranduil traced the small brow with a gentle finger, caressing the tiny point of his ear. Legolas shivered lightly, that small smile still lingering on his features. “Could you find Bronwe for me?” Thranduil asked, looking up at his Head Baker. Maeassel nodded gently, “And perhaps fetch me some food… I am fair starving.” Turning his attention back to the sleeping elfling, Thranduil smiled. Looking up to catch her attention he added, “and a warm blanket for Legolas.”

“Any particular food?” Maeassel asked, the darkening bruise on her face not dimming the brightness of her smile at all.

“Perhaps one of your lovely tarts,” Thranduil asked hopefully, “Are they in season?”

“My King, for you I would make tarts even outside the season,” she nodded, smiling. “I will spread the news of your awakening among our people and bring you something delicious.” Hurrying out the door, Maeassel’s happy tears once more trailed down her cheeks.

 

 

 

Running down the hall, she was stopped by the Captain of the Guard. “The King is awake,” she shouted, making Bronwe stop dead in his tracks.

A large smile broke out across his face as he picked her up and twirled her around, laughing happily. “This is the best news I have heard in an age!” he exclaimed, leaning in to kiss her. Maeassel burst into tears, hiding her face in his chest. Bronwe ran his hands soothingly down her back, fighting a few tears of his own; he had missed his friend sorely – and not just because of the one who had replaced him on the throne.

“Yes, I’m so-so relived,” she hiccupped, nodding against his chest, wiping her face ineffectually with her sleeve.

“Hush now, hiril vuin,” he murmured, tilting her head up to kiss her brow. He stiffened, tracing the mark of a fist on her cheek gently, rage bubbling through his veins. “Who did this?” he asked darkly. Maeassel winced.

“Lord Thonnon,” she admitted in low tones. Bronwe cursed harshly.

“You are well?” he asked, “Both of you?” Stroking his palm down her side, he pressed gently against the swell of his unborn child, who moved slowly to return the pressure. He sighed in relief, feeling the little life dreaming peacefully. Maeassel nodded.

“Yes, meleth,” she promised, pressing a kiss against his cheek. “The King is waiting for you.”

“Go get Nestor to look at your cheek, hiril vuin.” Bronwe replied gently, “I will look in on the King before I find the hand that did this.” Pressing a final kiss to her forehead and patting the place where his unborn child lived, he sped off towards the King’s chambers.

Setting off for the kitchen once more, Maeassel stopped every single elf she saw to share her news, making word of the King’s return spread like a wildfire through the Halls.

 

“Hwiniedir,” Thranduil looked up at the mention of his first name, looking at his oldest friend in the world. “You are awake.”

“Bronwe-nîn.”

“I am… you will not believe how happy I am to see you awake once more,” Bronwe said hoarsely, striding across the floor to grasp Thranduil’s hand in his own.

“Maeassel told me some of what has occurred here,” Thranduil said, feeling anger simmer in his gut, “There will be a reckoning for what has been done in my absence, but I am grateful that my people have such firm grasps on what is right, even if I must have failed to teach my sons the same.” He sighed; part of him thought he could never make right what had been wronged in his absence, though he would do his utmost to mend what had been broken. In the end, the choice of successor had been his failing, and now it would be upon his shoulders to right that mistake. “Perhaps, I do not know them as well as I thought,” he mused sadly. He had known that Thonnon harboured anger towards him, but he had not believed that his son would have gone so far as to take that anger out on innocents left in his care. Thandir’s absences were equally inexcusable; Thranduil had placed trust in him, trusted him to rein in Thonnon’s darker sides. “I believed them worthy of the tasks I had given them, but…”

“We all believed the Princes would be worthy successors,” Bronwe replied, squeezing his fingers comfortingly. Thranduil shook his head sadly.

“I do not understand how I could not have seen this…” he murmured. Turning his head, he had to smile, looking raptly at the sleeping elfling in his lap. “Look at my son, Bronwe, he has grown so much… how could his brothers not love him?” Thalion would have adored Legolas, Thranduil thought, and if Thonnon had not been so much stronger than Thandir, perhaps his two youngest would have… no, he could not spend his time wishing.

“He is very much like you, mellon,” Bronwe murmured.

Thranduil looked up, “I saw you finally acceded defeat with Maeassel.” The smirk he gave the Captain of the Guard was entirely smug; had he not predicted that very outcome before he had even sent his Queen to the Grey Havens?

“If I had to be defeated, I can think of no worthier conqueror, my King.” Bronwe said hoarsely, but his smile was blindingly happy and Thranduil found himself returning it.

“Indeed,” he replied drily, making Bronwe blush. Thranduil chuckled. “Love comes to us all, mellon, swift as the wings of the Great Eagles. May she bring you much happiness.” He had hope that his friend would be spared the pain his own love had dealt him; with the defeat of the Enemy, peaceful years should lay ahead.

“I thank you,” the Captain smiled, but then his face hardened. “I want to lay charge against Prince Thonnon for striking Maeassel,” he continued. Thranduil nodded sagely; he had expected that as soon as he saw Maeassel’s bruised face.

“That is your right and duty, mellon, though, if I may, I will ask you a favour,” he replied.

“What is your wish, mellon?” Someone who did not know Thranduil might have thought that he would plead leniency for his son, but Bronwe knew better. As Oropher before him, Thranduil was a great believer in consequences, and Bronwe expected that the punishments the King himself would dole out to his sons for their treatment of his people – not to mention their _brother_ – would be far harsher than anything he could devise.

“When you repay Thonnon for his ill-deed… add a few hits for Legolas…and his Naneth.” Bronwe nodded grimly. He had expected nothing less, knowing that his old friend was not physically well enough to duel anyone after almost 10 years of lying prone in a bed. “Then add a few more for me. And something for those who should have been certain of their safety under his dominion.” Thranduil exchanged a loaded look with his captain. Bronwe nodded again. Turning back to stare at his sleeping child once more, Thranduil smiled softly. “He’s grown so,” he cooed, stroking the pale hair that had been cropped close to the scalp; another cruelty of Thonnon’s perhaps? “I only wish Nínimeth could see him.” Thranduil’s voice broke on her name, the tears he had held back for Maeassel’s sake now flowing freely as he leaned into the support of his oldest friend.

Bronwe’s hand remained solidly on his shoulder, though he spoke no words as he watched his friend weep for his losses, knowing that nothing he could say would mend his friend’s torn heart.

 

 

 

[1] My Leaf


	9. Two Queens

Reading the letters her son had sent, detailing her Faerbraichon’s end and all the grief that followed made Nenglessel heartsick, longing to enfold him in her embrace, comfort him as she had done when he was small; Nenglessel could read the pain of his words, knew how truly desperate her little Hwiniedir would have been to take the option of sending the love of his life to Valinor – reading about Nínimeth’s accusations broke her heart for both of them, but not so much as the brief passage that described the elusive happiness of the years before the birth of her last grandchild.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Nínimeth could hear water lapping at the shore when she woke. She found herself in a room draped in green hued silk hangings, creating the illusion of wind through trees indoors. It would never fool a true daughter of the forest and for a while she tried to figure out why she had ordered her rooms redecorated like this. Her mind drifted lazily, like waking slowly from a long sleep. When her idle musings led her to the face of Thranduil, contorted in pain, she shied away, forcibly making herself remember the sight of the blue butterflies taking off from her favourite tree in the Greenwood. It had been Thalion’s favourite too… and that’s where her thoughts ended and the tears began.

 

 

“This was my sister’s room, once,” a quiet female voice said, when Nínimeth’s tears had finally stopped. “I thought you would like the green… her name was Aldingië. It means treetop – a rare name for a Telerin child, but Aldingië was never much interested in the Sea.” Nenglessel spoke easily, making the silk hangings waft in the gentle breeze as she opened the window. “There used to be a massive oak tree outside her window, she would climb it and sit there every day. She was a weaver – a good one – and she’d keep an eye out for any of the sails she had made.” Smiling gently, she looked out the window; sails were visible in the cove and further away, bright spots of colours and intricate patters against the calm blue sea.

“Ontarie…” Nínimeth said wonderingly, “but you are in Valinor.” Nenglessel smiled, taking a seat on the edge of Nínimeth’s mattress.

“Yes, Selya, we are in Aman. Near Alqualondë, on the eastern shores of Aman, to be exact.” Nenglessel smiled gently, but Nínimeth stiffened in shock.

“I… Valinor?” she whispered. “I half thought it was all a dream… it isn’t a dream, is it?” she asked, a light sheen of tears making her eyes glisten. Nenglessel shook her head lightly, shifting her position until she could rest Nínimeth’s head in her lap, her light fingers running through tangled crimson locks, smoothing the snarled strands.

“No, Selya,” she whispered, feeling the tears spill over and dampen her dress, “it is not a dream.” Humming softly, she let her good-daughter weep, offering what little comfort she might through familiar touch; Nínimeth’s red hair had always been a source of fascination to her, the colour only rarely seen in Aman, and almost never in Doriath.

“I remember… Rhonith put me on the ship. She said she could not bear to see me fade in grief…” Nínimeth murmured, already half asleep. “But it’s like… it’s not my memory, it’s as though I was told a story…” she frowned, trying to remember exactly how she had come to be in Aman. Nenglessel smoothed the worried lines on her face away.

“Part of the healing of the Undying Lands, Selya,” she explained, though it was a paltry explanation at best, words falling short of encompassing all that was the Blessed Realm and its impact on the Elves who dwelled within the Grace of the Valar. “You feel the peace of these lands seep into your soul. You will not heal at once, but you will find… peace with your grief.” Nenglessel’s words and soothing hands imparted a quiet serenity, turning Nínimeth’s tense body drowsy and relaxing her until she was almost on the precipice of sleep, the words sounding far away. “Eventually, those you have left behind will join you once more. Valinor does not remove your feelings, it simply allows you to breathe around them. You were far gone, sweetling, and these periods where you know where you are will increase in frequency as you heal. Your mind will stop catching on the jagged edges of your torn heart, instead enjoying the smoothed roundness of your loving memories. You will never forget those you have lost, but the pain of missing them will dull in time...” She continued speaking for some time, though she knew Nínimeth did not hear it, drifting off to sleep once more, lulled by her soft voice and gentle hands.

 

 

“Where is Hwi- Thranduil?” Nínimeth asked, stopping herself from letting the familiar endearment pass her lips. She had no right to name him so, she felt, guilt for the way she had acted thick and heavy in her breast, battling with the grief that still clung to her. “I need to apologise to him…”

Nínimeth _wanted_ her husband, needed to reassure herself that she had not thrown away more than two millennia of happiness with her actions since the birth. She was beginning to remember more of her recent past, feeling ashamed of the way she had behaved, and frantic to explain to her husband that she had not meant the words she had hurled at him in accusation, to beg his forgiveness. She did not remember seeing anyone but Nenglessel or Avornien since arriving in Alqualondë, for the Dowager Queen had not been entertaining at home, instead going out to visit with her friends and family.

“My son is ruling the Woodland Realm as is his duty, Selya.” Nenglessel said clearly. Compassion coloured her voice, but Nínimeth could hear the underlying resentment in the tone of the words. She flinched, suddenly acutely aware that Nenglessel was her husband’s _naneth_. No matter that she had not meant to do it, she _had_ abandoned Nenglessel’s son to lift the burdens of ruling alone, had given him grief and torment to carry besides. _Nenglessel_ had stayed in Greenwood for her husband and her son, even if their new Realm was so far removed from the Sea that Ulmo’s voice was all but unheard… _she_ had stayed with her husband, duty binding her even as her two loves warred. The First Queen of Greenwood had remained beside her husband for more than five millennia and it had been Oropher himself who had told her to sail in the end, preferring to think of her living contentedly far from him than watch the longing for the Sea tear at fëa.

The reproach was never spoken, and Nenglessel was never harsh with her or treated her unkindly, but Nínimeth felt the sting of it keenly nonetheless. The voices in her own head were more than loud enough, lambasting her weakness. _Nínimeth_ had been born to those trees, had known the paths of the forest for longer than she could rightly remember – and yet she had withdrawn from her husband, her _son_ …  

She had sworn oaths, on the night of her wedding, yet she had not managed to keep them, managed to hold on to him, to love, to the promise that they would be each other’s strength. The Shadow had taken her brightness, marred it indelibly, and yet she had found sunlight once more, found _love_ once more, made herself stronger than grief – or so she had thought.

“Why?” Nínimeth cried, pulling on her hair in a vain attempt to stop her tears falling, feeling the jagged edges of Hwin’s space in her fëa reach pointlessly for the memory of him. “Why would he abandon me to sail West without him?” she whispered, collapsing on her knees as waves of grief washed over her, every heartbeat calling out a name into the void. She knew why, of course, but this uncertainty, forcing her to live without him, without the possibility of making their lives right once again was more painful than she had expected.

 

“My son takes after his father, Nínimeth.” Nenglessel sighed, rising from her seat on a low divan by the window where she had been watching the grey churning waters of a storm-whipped sea. Ulmo’s fury was glorious, and if Nenglessel had not had her guests to look after she would have gone for a run, joyously dancing through the crashing waves until Ulmo’s anger turned them into lapping tongues of playfulness licking at her feet.

Avornien did not need care like Nínimeth, but the Silvan elf was unsettled by the unhindered view of the water and the open sky that Nenglessel’s cliff-top home provided, and Nínimeth was little comfort, still lost in her own mind most of the time and often unresponsive to the world around her.

 “Greenwood was my home for many years, but my heart ever longed for Alqualondë and the beat of the waves upon the rocks of these shores. ‘ _I love you, and I do not doubt your love for me, my wife and queen’_ , he said, ‘ _But your heart also belongs to Ulmo and I have kept you here in this land of trees overlong. Go to the Grey Havens on the morrow, my sea-spirit, and if that does not quiet your yearnings, go to your kinsman Círdan and beg for passage on one of his ships, return to your beloved home and await my coming. Our son is not yet ready to take my crown, but when he is, I will follow you as you have followed me for so long._ ’” Nenglessel paused, staring out of the window. The salty sea air, which felt so bracing to those of Falmari blood, which sang with Ulmo’s joy and roared with his rages, which was home to the screeches of maiwi and the beat of the wings of halatiri, did not fill the Silvans with the same serenity it imparted to Nenglessel. “My love watched the sea-longing tear my heart in twain,” she added, “and I know our people felt it, too, my son not least of all.”

“But-” Nínimeth began, but Nenglessel continued speaking.

“Bregolion was meant to take Faerbraichon’s lordship before Doriath fell,” she said quietly, “but my Hwiniedir still understands that his duty is to his people first, his heart second. He will follow you when he can, just as his father would have followed me.” She sighed, running her fingers lightly over the gossamer curtains. She longed to run along the beach, letting the waves lick at her bare feet, letting the salt spray hide her own tears for a while; it had been years since she had last seen either her son or her husband, but her grief was no less heart-rending than Nínimeth’s.

 

“So he just sent me away?” Nínimeth accused angrily, “I would _never_ have chosen this fate!” Blaming Thranduil for abandoning her to this place of Air and Sea did not make her heart-ache less, but anger was better than despair.

Nenglessel laughed, but not unkindly.

“You would have faded into nothing, Selya, and my son, who had lost so many already, could not bear to watch you destroy yourself along with his happiness. My son has loved you since the first moment he laid eyes on you.” Whirling to stare at Nínimeth, Nenglessel was surprised by a burst of anger at the sight of her daughter-by-law looking so furious. “ _Never_ disparage his courage to me!” she said, her voice low and intense as her emotions boiled over. Nínimeth flinched back. “My Hwiniedir chose to send you here for the sake of _hope_. He had already lost his father, his _son_ , so don’t you _dare_ tell me he should have let you die too!”

“I wanted to follow Thalion! I _should_ have died!” Nínimeth screamed back. “Not my little boy!” Nínimeth’s despair overwhelmed her rage, tears sliding down her cheeks, but Nenglessel’s temper was not mollified.

“Thalion was an ellon grown, Nínimeth! He _chose_ to follow his grandfather’s call to arms, _chose_ to fight for the Free Peoples of Middle Earth, for the chance of a life free of Sauron’s dominion!” she shouted. “Hwiniedir sent me a letter explaining what happened to you and while I sympathise with your loss, I will not give you mindless pity.” Nenglessel raged, pacing back and forth by the open doorway, the roar of the sea nearly drowning out her next words; quiet but no less fervent than her furious yell. “I watched my brother cut down by the swords of the Noldor, I watched my father die trying to stop them taking our ships. I lost all of my family and most of my friends in the First Kinslaying, Nínimeth, I know the temptation of giving in to the grief for lives lost!” Nínimeth stared up at her, pale and trembling. “But I lived… _for them,_ ” Nenglessel sighed, staring out at the sea. “I survived, I found my Faerbraichon, I had my children.” Shaking her head slowly, she turned once more to stare at the roiling sea, the wind whipping white across the tops of the waves. “I lost two of my sons to a dragon,” she added, “and my only daughter perished in the Havens… along with her infant daughter.” Behind her, Nínimeth was silent. Nenglessel closed her eyes briefly, turning to glare at her good-daughter, whose face was wet with tears. “Do not speak to me of loss, Nínimeth, as if you are special in wanting to let grief take you,” Nenglessel said, her fingers clenching into a tight fist. “Grieve your losses, but do not demean the sacrifice of those who died for you by trying to follow them!” Her voice rose with each word, her temper roiling in her blood as she threw them at the silent elleth.

 

Nínimeth remained frozen on the stone floor, not even turning her head as Nenglessel threw herself out the door, the sharp sound of the wind snapping at the curtains not enough to rouse her from her stupor. Her mind reeled.  She had known that Thranduil’s sister was dead before they had even met, but that Nenglessel’s whole family had been among those slain in the Kinslaying of Alqualondë was news. A small part of her felt pleased to finally know why Oropher’s minstrels never told the story of Fëanor’s Oath and the grief that followed in the Queen’s presence, but most of her mind was subsumed by guilt and shame. Nenglessel had been right to rebuke her for her wish to have joined her son in death, Nínimeth knew, and wondered if she had screamed the same words at Thranduil.

She feared she had told him far worse.

Hours later, the storm began to slow down, though Nenglessel had not returned. Nínimeth had wrapped herself in a knitted blanket and taken her good-mother’s seat on the divan, staring unseeingly at the grey waters, a single question reverberating in her mind:

_Did Hwin not send a message for me at all?_

 


	10. A King's Word

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Judgment

Days after he woke, Thranduil sat on his throne, Legolas perched on his lap. He was feeling reluctant to let go of his son, even for a few minutes, and luckily Legolas seemed of a mind to indulge his need for closeness, finally convinced that his touch would not make Thranduil disappear, a fear that silently baffled his Adar. The small elfling – who was already looking much healthier than when he had first opened his eyes – had not had much physical closeness in his short life, Thranduil thought, but that would change.

“My people,” Thranduil began, doing his best not to let his voice waver – he was still physically weakened, but he had not wanted to delay this judgement until he had recovered his strength. “As your King, it falls to me to judge those who are accused of wrong-doing. Does anyone wish to lay a grievance?” A low murmur of anger seemed to run through the room.

“I have a grievance, my King,” Captain Bronwe said, his voice filling the Throne Room clearly, just as Thranduil had asked him, ensuring that everyone heard the words – everyone who made their home in the Hall had gathered here, half in anticipation of seeing their King returned to his rightful place, but at least as interested in the event about to unfold. The murmur of voices fell to an almost deadly silence.  

Looking over the sea of faces turned towards him, Thranduil nodded. The crowd split at once, letting Captain Bronwe lead two elves towards the dais. Thandir’s face was inscrutable, a flicker of guilt in his features when he caught sight of Legolas, while Thonnon seemed to be seething with anger. Legolas hid in his Ada’s robes, shying away from the dark scowl on Thonnon’s face and pressing himself into the feeling of safety he found in his arms.

Stroking his small back gently, Thranduil wrapped a fold of his voluminous robes around the elfling, offering him the comfort he sought. He felt viciously satisfied at the sight of the bruise that marred Thonnon’s cheekbone; Bronwe was meticulous in all his work. A moment later, the inescapable guilt reared its head, a small voice wondering if he could have done anything to prevent them from being necessary. Thranduil ignored it, deadening himself to the feelings of parental love that wanted to soften his judgement; today, he must be the King, more than the Adar – or, at least, the Adar in him had to concern himself with the welfare of his youngest more than his eldest sons. Feeling the way Legolas burrowed against his side, Thranduil hardened his resolve.

“Speak, Captain Bronwe,” he called.

“On behalf of the people of Greenwood, my King, I charge Lord Thonnon and Lord Thandir with neglect of their sacred duties, cruelty and endangerment of an innocent and usurping the rights of a regent. Will you hear their plea?” Bronwe said, as those closest sneered at the two elves behind him.

Thranduil shook his head. “I have heard these accusations against my sons, Captain Bronwe, and they have failed to give me anything but vitriol in defence,” he replied, keeping his face impassive as he studied his sons. Thandir had been summoned from the northern reaches, arriving late the evening before, and looked weary; guilty for the part he had played. He had expressed sincere joy at Thranduil’s awakening, but he had had little to say in his own defence, knowing that he had failed the duty given to him. Thonnon bared his teeth, half opening his mouth to speak, but Thranduil silenced him with a gesture. “I will hear no more.” His heart lay heavy as the stone around them in his breast, but his voice rung out clearly.

A murmur ran through the room when Thranduil rose from his Throne, keeping Legolas securely attached to his hip. Looking directly at the two ellyn, the Elvenking spoke.

“You are no longer Lords in my realm.” Anther, louder, susurration of whispers rose at that proclamation, but Thranduil was not done. “From this day forth, you are banished from my Halls. If your wives and children will follow you, that is their choice, but you will leave ere morning breaks.” Looking at the Silvans he ruled, Thranduil saw several Elves nodding; the punishment was acceptable.

“Adar-vîn, you cannot do this!” Thandir shouted, glaring at the surrounding elves whose faces returned his words with nothing but anger. Cold fury ran through Thranduil’s veins; he had not wished to do this, but they had left him little choice – Thonnon had not been left to rule alone, after all, even if that was how he had behaved, and that made Thandir equally guilty of his cruelties.

 _"De edledhion o ndôr nîn[9]_.” Thranduil said, lacing his voice with all the Power of his fëa. Both of them reared back as though struck –  as if they had not truly believed him when he told them that they would be punished for the transgressions done in his absence. “I can only hope that in your exile you will learn compassion as I have apparently failed to teach you,” Thranduil continued sorrowfully. For the first time, he was happy that his beloved Queen was not here to witness this tragedy. “Know, also, that it is only for the great love I bear your Naneth, and the understanding I carry for your grief that my sentence is so lenient.” He was not certain he could have handed out a harsher punishment, based on the look on Thandir’s face, but he could not disown them entirely as he had originally intended; part of him needed to believe that there was hope of reconciliation in the future, somehow, even if his rational mind doubted he would ever forgive the existence of the question Legolas had asked him more than once since he woke. _Are you really my Adar?_

No one spoke; Thandir’s face had turned white, equal parts grief and guilt, but Thonnon’s showed only fury, though he retained enough presence of mind to keep quiet as he tore himself away from Bronwe’s hands, pushing through the gathered throng and shoving elves aside to reach the large doors.

He did not look back.

Thranduil nodded to Bronwe, and the Captain silently led Thandir out of the room, the younger twin turning back only once, offering his Adar a bow, hand fisted over his heart that gave Thranduil _some_ hope that his son would not be lost to him forever; Thandir would work to atone for his weakness.

Many voices rose in the caverns as soon as the heavy doors fell shut on their departure.

Thranduil did not hear them, turning away from the sight, returning to his throne. Grief once more rent his heart in pieces, and he sank heavily into the seat, the Oak Sceptre clutched tight in bloodless fingers. He wanted to weep, but the Elvenking of Greenwood kept himself together for the sake of his people and his smallest son. They needed him to be strong, to keep moving, to carry out the duties laid upon him.

In his arms, Legolas slept peacefully, his small presence a balm to his adar’s weary heart.

 

[9] I banish you from my land.


	11. The Last Farewell

“Faerbraichon should have made Hwiniedir King before the War. I was not there to temper his reckless nature, and grief and sorrow followed.” Nínimeth stiffened, surprised that she had not heard the former Queen return. Nenglessel's bare feet were silent against the stone floor. Her golden hair was tangled by the sea air and damp with the salty spray of Ulmo’s waters.

“It would have made no difference. My son might still be…gone,” she forced herself to say it, but could not make the word _dead_ pass her lips. “And now I am here, exiled to await the coming of my love in an unfamiliar land, doomed to abandon my family… my _home_.” Tears trailed slowly down her face, feeling a vicious stab of longing, as though her arms yearned to hold tight what had been left behind. She did not remember if her son had been old enough to smile at her – or if he just never had felt like smiling in her presence. The small face was indistinct in her memory, another cause for heartache; she would never see him grow up, see him fulfil the glimpse of his future she had seen as he entered the world through her body. _Legolas._  

“The Undying Lands are not your prison, Selya.” Nenglessel objected quietly.

“I can never return to the forests of my ancestors. I cannot leave.” Cannot go _back_ , cannot… Nínimeth shook her head, turning to look up at her good-mother. “The cage has shut.”

Nenglessel sat down beside her, taking her hand gently. “You are not alone,” she promised.

“My Adar has been dead for many years, my Naneth perished in the war against Sauron almost two millennia ago. I have no friends in this place, no close kin but you, Ontarie…” Nínimeth said, leaning against Nenglessel’s shoulder, “I am more alone now than I have ever been before.” She sighed, staring morosely across the tossing waves. Ulmo’s temper had abated for now and she could see a few intrepid sailors braving the waters, their bright sails splotches of colour against the changing blue of the Sea.

“I am here,” Nenglessel said, “and one day, your parents will leave the Halls of Mandos and re-join life here, as well as your brother, your son and those you have called friends. You must be patient.”

“They would not have accepted the Call,” Nínimeth whispered despondently. “Not even Thalion, much as he loved your stories of Aman, would have chosen to leave the Forest; his spirit will have returned to the trees. As most Silvans would… as _mine_ would.”

Nenglessel stiffened, but remained silent.

 

“I don’t want to be _patient_ ,” Nínimeth grumbled, once the Moon had risen, casting its gently silver glow upon the waves. “I want my husband and my sons, my granddaughters; I want my family.” She wanted to stomp her foot childishly but remembered that she had too much dignity for such an action. Beside her, Nenglessel hid a smile, glad to see a little of Nínimeth’s former spirit return.

“Do you want me to read you Hwiniedir’s letter?” Nenglessel asked mildly. “You seem able to listen for now.” Her temper calmed by the storm and her run, she rose from the low divan, lifting the sheets of paper from a small box, carved with maple leaves in great detail. Handing Nínimeth the letters, Nenglessel sat down slowly, pulling her daughter by marriage closer and running her fingers soothingly through her hair. Nínimeth gasped, staring at the pieces of paper she held, neatly formed letters scrawling across the pages.

“He wrote to me…” she whispered, tracing the incomprehensible markings with a fingertip, “But…why did Avornien not tell me?” she asked, giving Nenglessel an imploring look. It hurt slightly that the Queen had not immediately informed her of the letter’s existence.

“Of course, he did, Selya. _Ci mêl_[10],” Nenglessel replied softly, “I have read you his letter every day you have been here, hoping you would remember that.” She sighed, gently carding through Nínimeth’s red hair. The younger Queen leaned into her touch, surrendering to the comfort as she watched the markings on the paper Nenglessel held, listened to the words and pretended they were being spoken by Hwin’s confident voice, not Nenglessel’s softer tones.

 

_My love, my Queen._

_As I write these words, I cannot help my weeping, for they are not ones I ever thought I should have to pen. By the time you see this, you will have arrived in Aman, and I can only imagine you sitting in her home in Alqualondë, looking at the Sea that is so different from all you have known. Does it frighten you, I wonder, or are you intrigued by its power and stark beauty? Avornien went with you, a boon I shall never forget to be thankful for, for I had feared that Rhonith would have gone had she not offered, and I could not bear to lose both my ladies at once._

_Please do not be angry with me for sending you from my side, for I can see no other path before me. I did not feel that I had another choice, but I wish that you could have said proper goodbyes, like my mother did when she left us. You scared me, Nínimeth, for I could not recognise my wife in the creature your grief created. I hope Aman can give you the peace that I did not manage, soothe in you the terrible fears of your mind’s imaginations._

_I know that I will feel your absence keenly until the day I can once more hold you in my arms, but know that I will do my best to make the waiting pass swiftly, my heart. You are the one I love best, and it is with great sorrow that I send you West, though I have hope that I may soon follow._

_Thandir and Thonnon will be wroth with me for sending you so far away, but I know they will help our people care for the youngest of our children. When the Silvans have gotten used to the idea of one of our sons being the King, I shall arrive at your side, begging your forgiveness for forcing this separation on you, my love._

_Know that Legolas will be as safe and loved as I can make him, and that I will continue to welcome our Rhonith to my Halls. Thandir and Arassiel have spoken of creating a little nephew or niece for our son to play with, so by the time I reach you once more, you may be a grandmother again! The thought makes me both happy and sad; happy that you will live to feel joy at such news and sad that you will not get to hold the elfling._

_In other news, Rhonith told me that Durin’s Folk have shut their Doors once more, secluding themselves from the outside world. It seemed painful to her, and I know you will recognise that she is forever searching for ways to bring her two peoples closer together._

_Thonnon’s daughters have both grown far too beautiful for their father’s liking. Calarhel has taken up the healer’s art in truth – she reminds me of you, my darling love – and Nestor claims she has inherited your gifts. Thavril is making eyes at the minstrel’s son, to my great amusement. She has always been so like Glaerdor, that it is only fitting to my mind that she marries a song-crafter. Thonnon seems to disagree, but he has always placed too much pride in his noble Doriathren blood for my liking. I believe he would have preferred his daughters marry Sindar Elves, but it is simply a feeling; I do not yet know what will happen._

_Maeassel is busy making eyes at Captain Bronwe; it seems the banishing of the Shadow has brought to light new hope and love for many of our people. I believe she will be successful – provided my old friend opens his eyes long enough to notice why she gives him so many sweets, rather than complain that she is trying to fatten him up and make him abandon his training for tasting her new dishes. It would please me greatly to see him find the happiness I have enjoyed with you._

_I have made young Galion the new Steward for my household, a job he is well suited for, though he lacks the experience of old Lord Lhingron, but his death left the Realm in need of a new Steward, especially as I do not know how long I will be lost in searching for you in our bond. Do you feel it still, there in Aman, or does it simply stretch back to me through the mists? Will I? It has been so long since our Joining, I hardly remember what it is like not to have your soul twined with mine._

_I know that I will miss you either way. I miss you already, for you are far gone even though your body resides three chambers from my own._

_Even as I grieve with you, my sorrow seems somehow lesser against your great trials, and I cannot help but doubt that I loved our son as much as you did. I loved Thalion – and how it pains me to write that in the past tense, for I love him still, expect him to walk through the door of my study and challenge me to a sparring match or begging for a story! The grief of his passing may never fade._

_I pray the Valar have mercy on us, Nínimeth, and let us both heal in our time apart, so that we meet once more in love and joy. My Heart, my most Precious Love, I pray that you will find peace._

_I have so much I wish to say to you, but I am finding it difficult to put my thoughts upon this paper, my Love, and how you would laugh at my predicament! The great Thranduil, who banters as skilfully as he wields his swords is lost for words. Perhaps this letter is too important to be properly penned – if you excuse the pun – down, and I should simply accept that I am unable to express my heart fully._

_Oh, my Beloved, I cannot see the road ahead, merely hope that it will lead me once more to the warmth of your arms. I fear that Greenwood will be a cold place without your laughter. Already I feel the absence of your voice in song so keenly, casting my memory back to happier times. Do you remember how we sang together in the Hall of Fire? I wonder if you will sing again in Aman, if I will be greeted by your voice calling your joy to the heavens when I finally see you once more._

_Naneth will care for you, for as long as you need it, but there are forests in Aman, if you miss the trees too much. The Elves of Lothlórien construct their talanmi, and it seems to me a fair way of life. Aman’s forests are not so cool in winter as our Woodland home, but I still beg you do not catch a chill when I cannot pull you into my arms to keep you warm. I love you._ _Know that however long it takes, I **will** come to you. _

_Know also that our youngest child will be loved and that I will tell him stories of you. He looks like me, a miniature in the making, and I cannot but wonder if he too will take to swordplay or if he will favour your bow. He seems a calm child, the few times I’ve held him, observing the world around him with eyes like mine. I am both saddened and proud of his physical form, my Beloved. I am sad that I can see none of you in our child, yet I am relieved that he will not be more of a reminder of you than his mere presence already makes him._

_I am sorry. I am sorry for sending you away from us, from your home. I am sorry, and yet, I am not sorry, for watching you fade would destroy me more than watching you leave. Oh, my Nínimeth, please forgive me._

_I swear to you, I will come._

_I love you, and I beg you remember._

_Remember, my love, and heal._

_Your Husband, Hwiniedir, Thranduil Elvenking of Greenwood._

 

The rest of the pages were ink drawings, places Nínimeth had loved, faces she had cherished; their family, friends, even a sketch of Thranduil himself, caught standing by his favourite window, the shadows of maple leaves falling across his face not enough to obscure the lines of sorrow etched into his skin, the defeated cast of his posture.

Nínimeth wept to see it.

The drawing of her small elfling, one arm waving up at her from the page, escaping the swaddling blankets, turned the weeping into a flood of grief that did not abate until the Sun had banished the darkness of the night and Nínimeth fell into uneasy sleep, Nenglessel’s arms wrapped around her.

 

 

[10] He loves you.


	12. Family

# Family

Hours later, after he had received the many well-wishes of his people and let them see him truly returned to them, Thranduil sat in his study, listening to the reports of Galion on the stores for the coming winter.

He was half asleep, watching Legolas play on the floor and listening with only half an ear, when a knock sounded, knuckles rapping lightly on the wooden door. Still weakened from his long sleep, the King waved tiredly at Galion, who opened the door.

“My Lord Thranduil.” The elleth in the doorway greeted politely. Her soft doe eyes took in the tired form of the King, before flitting to where Legolas was playing on the floor. She knelt before him, bowing her head.

“Arassiel.”

“Adar-nîn…” she began softly. Thranduil could not help but wince and Arassiel flinched. “I am sorry. I did not realise… I should have done more for the Leafling,” she whispered, glancing at Legolas, “I did not know.”

Thranduil knew she had not known – Arassiel lived close to the northern borders rather than in the Halls – but he still resented her for it; if Thandir had not taken her away and thus made himself scarce, perhaps Thonnon would not have been allowed to spiral so far out of control. Wishful thinking, Thranduil told himself harshly, but still he could not help but feel that Arassiel bore some blame for the events of the past decade. He pushed the feeling away harshly.

“Arassiel… what will you do?” he asked, genuinely curious. Thandir might have been culpable, but he had not been outright cruel to the people – Arassiel herself was of Nandorin blood, and Thandir had always loved both sides of his parentage. Thranduil sighed. He had always liked Arassiel; the quiet yet spirited elleth had been a good match for his son, which he had heartily approved of, even if Thonnon had sneered at his brother marrying a lowly bowyer from the northern reaches.

“I will go away, Adar,” Arassiel sighed, getting to her feet. “I have kin in Lothlórien.” Thranduil nodded. He would miss her, he thought, even if she had not been his good-daughter for many years. Arassiel bit her lip indecisively, her hand going to her abdomen and Thranduil’s eyes widened in surprise as he realised what the gesture meant.

“You are pregnant?” he asked softly. Arassiel nodded, a single tear making its way down her face. “Congratulations, sweet one,” Thranduil replied quietly. “I am happy for you.”

“I had not thought to tell you in this manner,” she admitted, sniffling softly, “but I no longer trust Thandir to be a good father to my elfling and so I will raise her far away from here.”

“Arassiel, do mind that you have not been banished.” Thranduil said, catching her hand and squeezing her fingers gently. “If you choose to stay, I will not punish you.”

Arassiel shook her head.

“Thank you, Adar, but I think I will have to leave,” she said. “I… I do not wish to see my people look at me with the disgust they feel for my husband’s actions colouring their eyes. I do not wish for my daughter to be scorned for the sake of her father. It is better this way. Perhaps, one day, Thandir will be the ellon I wed once more, but for now… I am alone.”

Arassiel had obviously thought her position through carefully, and Thranduil could only agree with her assessment. Even if Thonnon had probably instigated much of the cruelty he had heard about – not just against Legolas, but also against the Silvans he considered beneath him – Thandir had not stopped him. Nor had he attempted to rein in his brother’s malicious tendencies… He did not like to think that his people would be cruel to an innocent elfling who had not even been born when the crime occurred, but he was not blind enough to consider it impossible, or even unlikely that some would hold an Adar’s actions against his daughter – even if she was the granddaughter of their King.  

“My Lord…” Arassiel trailed off, biting her lip. Thranduil gave her a gentle smile, permission to continue. He had a feeling he knew what was on her mind as her hand once more went to her belly, still flat, hiding the precious treasure growing within. Arassiel rallied, her brown eyes determined as she looked directly at him. “When the child is grown… may I send her to meet you? Thandir may no longer be your son, but…” An orphan herself, Arassiel would not wish her daughter to have no kin to call her own, Thranduil knew, nodding at his good-daughter.

“I would be honoured to meet any child of yours, Arassiel, and I will claim her as one of my line despite her father’s exile,” Thranduil promised quietly, watching her whole body relax at his words. “Go with my blessings, daughter. You will always have a home in my Halls, and you and yours will be welcome kin.” Thranduil got to his feet, reaching to run his fingers along the ridge of her ear in a fond caress. Arassiel bowed her head, making her way out of the room.

“Farewell, my Lord Thranduil. I am grateful for your mercy.”

 

A few minutes of solemn silence later, Galion cleared his throat and began his interrupted report anew, but Thranduil stalled him with a hand.

“Legolas, do you know who that elleth was?” he asked quietly, making Legolas look up from his teetering stack of wooden blocks. The elfling nodded.

“She is the brown-haired one who told me my name,” he smiled, oblivious to the way Thranduil’s heart squeezed in horror at the innocent happiness on his face at the thought. “Thonnon hit her. Thandir was very angry and then I did not see her again.” Legolas turned back to the wooden building blocks in front of him.

“Her name is Arassiel,” Thranduil said quietly. “She is your good-sister, ionneg, and her child will be your niece when she is born.” He looked at Galion, who nodded obediently, “Ensure that an escort is found for Arassiel and take a message to Lady Galadriel. I want to know how she fares, and when the child is born I would be grateful for a notice. You may feed this gossip to the right ears, as well… Arassiel remains my daughter and under my protection.” With a silent nod, Galion sped off to do his King’s bidding, leaving Thranduil to play with his small son.

 

“My Lord, I have brought the noonday meal,” a quiet voice said a while later as Maeassel made her way into the room with a tray balancing on her bump. She smiled gently, bending to ruffle Legolas’ short hair in passing.

“Thank you, Maeassel,” Thranduil replied, turning his attention to the plentiful meal and coaxing his small son to eat the different treats. Legolas never seemed to dare touch any food that wasn’t specifically given to him, which meant Thranduil had to feed him carefully to ensure his son’s growth was not stunted. The impotent rage he felt every time he witnessed another tiny bit of evidence of the hard life his son had endured while his soul roamed the stars made him curse himself, the Queen, his former sons, even poor Thalion, whose death had started the whole chain of events. He sighed. In his mind’s eye he saw once more the red-haired ellon with green eyes – so like his mother – and imagined how joyfully Thalion would have played with the baby Legolas.

 

When Galion returned, the meal had been eaten, and Thranduil was reclining on his favourite divan, meditatively stroking Legolas’ small back as the elfling napped on his chest.

“Tell me, Galion, where is Rhonith?” Thranduil had considered trying to reach her with his thoughts, but he was still too weak for ósanwë.

“Lady Rhonith went to stay with Lord Durin in Dwarrowdelf, my Lord,” Galion replied, looking unhappy. “Lord Thonnon was most… unkind.”

Sometimes Thranduil wondered how weak he appeared to those closest to him; everyone but Bronwe seemed to attempt to couch their words in vagueness rather than risk speaking ill of his second son.

“Tell me plainly, Galion,” he commanded, annoyance hardening his voice. Legolas snuffled in his sleep and Thranduil forced himself to relax, keeping his agitation from waking the little boy.

“Well,” Galion swallowed, “he called her a wicked half-breed witch who should have been drowned at birth… among other accusations, my Lord.”

Thranduil grimaced; he could only imagine what Galion had left out. “The warriors going with Arassiel… have them ask for her at the Front Gates,” he asked, keeping his tone carefully neutral. “I should like to see her.” To apologise, firstly, but also to see for himself that she was well now that one of the strongest reminders of her early days had gone beyond the Sea. The thought was alarming, in more than one way, making his arm tighten involuntarily around Legolas.

“She sent you a letter, my King,” Galion said.

“Letter?” Thranduil asked, wondering why he hadn’t been informed of its existence sooner, but dismissing the mystery instantly; there had been so many tasks to be done, so much that needed his seal of approval, it was no wonder some things slipped through the cracks.

“Lady Rhonith sent a messenger some years ago, bidding Lord Thonnon to send word when you awoke, I think,” Galion continued, the words running together; obviously guilty that the request had not been fulfilled. Thranduil waved his concern away – Rhonith would understand the delay. “She said – the messenger said – she wanted her words to remain in your hands, not simply carried from mouth to ear,” Galion replied, a light embarrassed flush on his cheekbones. “The letter should be somewhere in your study, my Lord. I will fetch the scribe to find it at once.”

Thranduil nodded, his eyes falling shut almost of their own accord as exhaustion rose up, swallowing him like a wave and pulling him down into the Sea of sleep.

 

Rusgon knocked gently on the wooden door of his King’s study.

“My Lord?” the scribe called. Thranduil blinked, trying to bring his mind back to wakefulness from the depths of sleep. Legolas was still lying on his chest, no longer sleeping but seemingly content to stay there, looking at the room silently. He smiled at Thranduil, those blue eyes like looking into a mirror.

“Yes?” Thranduil called hoarsely, glancing at the doorway.

“Steward Galion said you sent for me, my Lord?” Ducking inside, Rusgon hunched his shoulders slightly; he wasn’t overly tall, but he had a tendency to attempt to make himself appear smaller than he was.

“Yes, Rusgon” Thranduil replied, remembering, “the letter Rhonith sent me. Find it.”

The red-haired ellon nodded once and immediately went to follow his king’s command, the sound of rustling papers issuing from the small library that Thranduil had inherited from his naneth and continued to use as a study.

Thranduil could read, though most of his subjects could not. The Sindarin and Silvan Elves tended to prefer to remember their history through songs and poems rather than keep it in dusty tomes, however, and those in Greenwood who could read were few and far between. They used numbers for tallies, and there were certain signs used to mark paths through the Forest, but actual letter writing was rare and considered an unnecessary skill to most. The King, however, had been brought first up in Doriath and had learned the art of letters from his naneth, who taught him to write with the letters created in Aman. Not to be outdone, Oropher had insisted he also learn the letters of Daeron the Poet, who had lived in Doriath.

“Here, my Lord,” Rusgon said, brandishing two scrolls still bearing Rhonith’s interlocking runic seal. “Lady Rhonith’s letters.”

They were written in Tengwar, rather than Cirth as the Dwarrow used it, but it was recognisably Rhonith’s strong hand, even if the first letter was slightly shaky, and the ink had run in spots.

 

_Dearest Atheg,_

_Nínimeth sailed this morning, and I am overcome with grief. I know I will not send you these words until I am back in the bosom of my mother’s home, but know that she was lucid once more before she left – aware of what was happening to her. Her thoughts were for you and the Leafling; she made me swear to stay behind when – for a word – I might have followed her out of love._

_My tears have dried upon this paper as I rode east from the Grey Havens. Lord Círdan was most kind to me, and your warriors executed their duty with all honour. I have bid them return to your side, while I journey onwards. The Dwarrowdelf is calling me home and I aim to spend some time with my kin there. I had a most disturbing visit from my mother’s Maker when I last entered reverie, and I think I am needed there, if only to assuage my own heart._

_Father of my Heart, do not grieve my absence. To walk your Halls without Thalion’s laughter or Nínimeth’s bright smile, to miss the gentle sound of your voice would be unbearable. I am sorry that I am not stronger than this grief, for I wish I could be with you once more every day. I hope little Leaf is being well cared for while I have exiled myself from your side._

_In hope that you will find your way back to us soon,_

_Rhonith_

_Dearest Atheg,_

_It is clear to me that I should not linger in Greenwood overlong under its new interim ruler; Thonnon is not the young ellon I remember, and my heart lies uneasy in my breast as I pen this… I am kept far from Lassig, and…_

Her pen had splattered, then, as though she had been interrupted in the writing, and the letter continued in a swift slant, words running together with urgency and the signature a barely legible scrawl.

_Hopefully, my absence will soothe tempers, and I shall await word of your awakening – I pray it will not be an overlong wait!_

_My path is unclear, for now, but know that in my heart, I will remain your daughter._

_Bear my love for you in your heart always,_

_Rhonith Hwiniel_

 

The day his sons left his Halls for paths unknown, Thranduil did not leave his rooms, remaining inside with Legolas all day.

Instead, their departure was observed by Bronwe – as well as anyone who didn’t have pressing duties elsewhere – standing stern and implacable by the large Front Gates of the caverns.

Thonnon’s wife, Calardes, whom Thranduil had always found disagreeable, had elected to follow her husband into exile, taking their two children with them. Thranduil would be saddened by the absence of his granddaughters, but, in the end, it was not his choice to make.

 

The Elvenking of the Woodland Realm did, however, see Lady Arassiel safely mounted on one of his smaller elk a few days later, waving her off on her journey south. The child she carried was yet young and did not weigh heavily on her small frame, but the long ride would not be particularly comfortable. With her went a letter to Lady Galadriel, asking her to send word when the elfling was born, to let the Realm celebrate the birth and naming of another scion of his line.

Accompanying Arassiel, Thranduil sent four of the warriors who had accompanied Nínimeth and Rhonith to the Grey Havens, entrusting her safety to one of Bronwe’s lieutenants. Their duty was twofold; firstly, to see Arassiel safely settled in Lothlórien and, secondly, to find Rhonith in the Dwarrowdelf and invite her to come home.

Thranduil longed to see her, even though he knew her arrival would bring fresh grief over Nínimeth’s departure. He wanted Legolas to remember her, but mostly he wanted the company of the one he called daughter to ameliorate the longing for his wife in the way the presence of his sons should have done.

Thranduil sighed, once again swearing a fervent oath that he would do better by Legolas than he had apparently managed with the twins.

The Elvenking returned to his Halls, restoring the peace of his people’s daily lives.

Legolas grew slowly but surely into a happy elfling, and if his smiles were sometimes dimmer than Thranduil would have liked, he did his best to banish the shadows from his son's mind.

 


End file.
